My Town
by The Urban Spaceman
Summary: When Sheriff Romero puts four bullets in Jake Abernathy's head, he believes that's the last he'll hear of the gang of sex-slave traffickers. It's only when more strangers begin appearing in White Pine Bay that he recalls Maggie Summers' words; "Keith told me he was running the same type of thing in four different ports up and down the coast."
1. Blood

My Town

_1. Blood_

_Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang._

Alex Romero's eyes flew open as the sound of gunfire wrenched him from the clutches of sleep. His hand moved automatically, fingers groping blindly under his pillow before closing around the Glock which had permanent residence beneath his head. As he sat up, he sniffed the air, testing for the acrid scent of gunpowder. When he detected no smell, and when he realised the night air was still, unbroken by any sound other than his own heavy breathing, he relaxed his grip on his pistol and let himself fall backwards to be embraced by the soft mattress.

That damn dream again. For five consecutive nights it had woken him from his sleep, but he didn't know why. It wasn't as if he hadn't shot anybody before. Hell, compared to some of the deaths he'd seen, and caused, the death of Jake Abernathy was as clean-cut as they came. The man had been the lowest sort of scum; a man who trafficked in young women, selling them for sex to the highest bidder. A man who would beat a woman to make her talk. A man who would threaten to kill, and carry out that threat, just to get his own way. In short, a man who did not deserve to be walking around, breathing the same air as Alex Romero.

He felt no guilt. None at all. So why did his unconscious mind keep playing that death scene inside his head, over and over again each night? Why did his mind keep taking him back to that foetid dock where, four nights ago, and witnessed only by the oddly eccentric Norma Bates, he had done humanity a favour by sending Abernathy back to the Hell whence he came?

_Brrrrrring brrrrrring. Brrrrrrring brrrrrring._

The sound of the telephone on his bedside table interrupted his thoughts with its insistent demand to be answered. As he reached for the handset, he glanced at his alarm clock. _01:35_ it read, in its large red digital numbers. There weren't many reasons why his phone would be ringing at such an unsocial hour, and none of them were good.

"Romero," he said, answering in the same tone that he used on his office phone. These days, he rarely thought of his home as anything more than an extension of his office. A place where he could go to shower, pick up a fresh uniform, and get a few hours sleep. When most cops went home to relax and spend time with their families, Romero remained on-duty. That was the price he paid for being Sheriff of White Pine Bay. In small towns, you couldn't leave your work on the doorstep. It followed you inside like a stray dog, begging and whining for scraps of food, and it wouldn't leave no matter how much you shouted at it to get lost. So he'd taken the stray dog in, and accepted that the price of safety was his own freedom. It was a small price to pay.

"Sir, sorry to disturb you, but we have a situation." The voice belonged to Ronald Moore, a man recently promoted to the newly-vacant position of Deputy.

Romero couldn't help the small sigh that escaped his lips. He'd been a law enforcement officer for over twenty years. He knew what 'a situation' meant.

"Who is it?" he asked, bracing himself inside, pushing away his emotions, because when you had 'a situation,' you couldn't afford to let your feelings get in the way.

"Beverley Watson." _Watson, Watson…_ "One of the high school teachers," Moore said, filling the silence.

Ah yes. Miss Beverley Watson. Romero could picture her now. A pale young woman, a quiet thirty-something with a perpetually hunted look in her eyes. He knew her mostly by sight, had only spoken to her a couple of times. She'd seemed a pleasant enough woman, which probably meant she had more dark secrets hidden in her closet than anyone else in town.

"Address?" he asked his deputy.

"36 Fairweather Avenue."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

He put down the receiver and reached for his uniform. After five days without incident, the stray dog was getting hungry again. It was time to find it something to eat.

o - o - o - o - o

By the time Romero pulled up outside the Watson home, a crowd had already gathered, drawn to the scene by the flashing blue lights on Moore's vehicle, like moths drawn to a flickering flame. The crowd was not unusual. Everybody knew everybody in White Pine Bay, and it always paid to be the first to hear the rumours.

He stepped out of his Hummer and approached the cordon that Moore had established. As he walked, he scanned the faces of the people in the crowd, looking for guilt. They were all guilty of something, every single one of them, but all he saw now was suspicion and curiosity. Most of the bystanders were in their pyjamas and dressing gowns; a few children were standing here and there, bleary-eyed beside their parents, as if they didn't quite know why they'd been dragged out of bed and asked to stand in the middle of the street at stupid o'clock in the morning. Confident that the people gathering outside the cordon had only come to see what new macabre event had befallen their small town, Romero turned towards the house. Towards the crime scene.

A familiar black car was parked in the driveway, which meant the coroner, Dr. Thomas Fitzpatrick, had driven fast to get here. As Romero approached the front door, Deputy Moore approached from within, greeting his superior with a respectful tip of the hat.

"What's happened?" Romero asked without preamble.

Moore paused for a moment, sucking air in through the gap between his front teeth before launching into a recount of the past few hours.

"Yesterday, Miss Watson failed to show up for class. The head teacher tried ringing, but didn't get an answer, so he called her next of kin, a sister, to see if she could check up on Miss Watson. The sister arrived just after midnight and found Miss Watson dead in the bedroom, throat slashed deep. Woman was near hysterical when she called 911. Sondheim and I got here just after one. Ambulance left a few minutes ago; said there was nothing they could do for a dead woman. Fitzy arrived not long before you. He's in there right now, examining the scene. Sondheim's with the sister, in the living room. Figured you'd want to speak to her before we let her go home, but she's a bit shook up."

Romero nodded to himself. Moore was a seasoned veteran, an officer of over thirty years whose leathery, line-worn face had seen more than its fair share of homicides. Both he and Sondheim knew better than to disturb a crime-scene; his examination of it could wait until Fitzpatrick was done bagging and tagging.

"What's the sister's name?" he asked.

"Mrs. Carmella Hawthorn. Lives with her husband and daughter in Fairfax. We've called the husband, he's on his way to pick her up."

"Alright." He nodded at the cordon. "See what you can do about the crowd. We don't need this turned into a circus."

"You got it."

As Romero stepped into the house, Moore's calls of _'Alright, let's move it along. Get back to your homes,'_ fell away. Dismissing the crowd from his thoughts, he turned his attention to the house. He'd always prided himself on his attention to detail; his ability to spot tiny inconsistencies was one of the reasons he'd made sheriff in the first place. It wasn't a skill that he had honed over time, but rather one that he had always had, even as a child, when he'd figured out long before it became public knowledge that his father was cheating on his mother. Some cops called it instinct, or a gut-feeling, or a sixth sense. Romero preferred to think of it as an ability to notice things which otherwise were unremarkable, and to put them into a logical context. Admittedly, he did take a lot of advice from his gut, too.

The house smelled of perfume, a spicy-sweet scent that tickled his nose and brought back a memory of how his own house had once smelled. He pushed that memory away, concentrating on the present. Other than the smell, the house was unremarkable. Clean, neat, well-kept. A painting on the wall depicted Van Gogh's Sunflowers, the frame perfectly straight, as if it had been aligned using a spirit-level by somebody with OCD. It fit with what he remembered of Miss Watson; she'd been a neat woman, well-presented, her nails and makeup immaculate. He suspected she took the same sort of pride in her appearance as he took in his attention to detail.

Strangled sobs reached his ears from a door that was ajar, and he found himself stepping into the living room. Officer Sondheim, Moore's partner for the evening, was sitting beside a woman on the sofa. Carmella Hawthorn looked so much like her sister that for a moment it took Romero's breath away, and he wondered if this was all some big, stupid joke. Then his attention to detail kicked in, and he noticed the shade of her eyes, which despite the redness from crying were lighter than Miss Watson's, and the laughter-lines around her mouth which told Romero that this woman had lived a happier life than her late sister.

When Sondheim saw his superior, he stood up, a respectful nod of his head showing that he was relinquishing care of the witness.

"Thank you, Sondheim," Romero said. "Moore could use some help dispersing the crowd."

"Yes sir," Sondheim replied, leaving the room.

For a long moment, Romero said nothing. He'd learnt long ago that silence was a cop's best friend. Most people didn't like silence; they rushed to fill it with something. Anything. All Carmella Hawthorn did, however, was sip whatever hot drink Sondheim had made for her, and dab at her puffy, tear-stained eyes with a handkerchief.

"Mrs. Hawthorn," he said, taking a seat on the chair opposite her. "I'm Sheriff Romero. I'm very sorry for your loss." The woman sniffed and nodded, wiping away fresh tear which rolled down her cheek. "I'd like to ask you a few questions about the events leading up to tonight."

"I already told your deputy everything I know," the woman said. She sounded exhausted. That was good. Tired people made poor liars. They tended to forget which lies they'd told you.

"I know. But I'd like you to tell me, too." He was used to this. Everybody liked a deputy; they saw deputies as men who were just trying to do their jobs. They evoked a sort of 'one of us' mentality, aided by a personal touch. A sheriff couldn't afford the personal touch. A sheriff couldn't be 'one of the people.' He had to be above the people. A symbol of strength and protection and authority. It set him apart from the people he protected, but like his freedom, it was a small price to pay. "Start at the beginning, when you heard from the school."

Mrs. Hawthorn closed her eyes, squeezing tears from each corner. It was a wonder she had any left inside her.

"I got a call from the head teacher about five o'clock," she began, "and he told me that Beverley hadn't turned up for work that morning. I tried ringing a few times, her house and her mobile, and when I couldn't get hold of her, I decided to drive up and check up on her myself." The woman's lower lip began to tremble and she brought her handkerchief to her eyes again. "I… I found Bev in the bedroom. There was blood everywhere, so much blood. Her… her eyes were open, she was just staring at the ceiling, and… her throat…" She ended in a choked sob. Romero took the cup of hot liquid from her before her shaking hands could empty it all over her knees.

"It's alright," he said. "Was it unusual for your sister to not show up for work?"

"Unheard of," Mrs. Hawthorn said. "Bev loved her job, and she loved those kids. I've known her to go to work even when she's been unwell, because she hasn't wanted to let the kids down. That's why I was so worried when I heard from the school."

Her words fell into his ears and he ran them through his in-built common-sense filter, picking up on an inconsistency.

"You live in Fairfax, Mrs. Hawthorn?" She nodded. "White Pine Bay is a two hour drive from Fairfax. If you got a call from the school at five o'clock in the evening, how come you didn't get here until after midnight?"

Her eyes widened, fear and then anger ghosting silently across her face.

"Because I have a life of my own, Mr. Romero, and despite what you may think, my sister is a grown woman who does not need a keeper. When I got the call from the school, I was in the middle of feeding my daughter. Do you have children, Sheriff?"

"No," he said, half truth, half lie.

"Then I don't expect you to understand the responsibility that comes with them." She lifted her head, a defiant gesture which temporarily displaced her sadness. "I didn't want to bring my daughter on the journey here with me, but my husband works shifts. He didn't get home until eight o'clock, and by the time we'd talked about what to do, and I'd tried to contact my my sister by phone, it was almost ten o'clock. My husband stayed home to watch over our daughter, and I came straight here."

"Still," he persisted, "your husband finished work at eight, and you didn't set off until ten. That must have been some 'talk' you had before deciding to come here."

The woman's demeanour shifted imperceptibly. Her chin was lowered, and she wrung her damp handkerchief through her hands, idly toying with it. Her down-cast gaze told a tale of its own, and he could almost hear her words before she spoke them.

"My husband doesn't approve of Beverley. He thinks she's a bit of a drama queen. We… argued. He thought she was just acting up for attention, and he didn't want me to come. He thinks that ever since our mother died, six years ago… well, mother was all we had, and Bev was always her favourite."

He said nothing. He believed her story, or enough of it at least. At last she looked up at him, her brown eyes distraught, imploring.

"Who would do this to my sister?"

"Can you think of anybody who might want to harm her?" he countered. Silently, he prayed that there _was_ somebody with a grudge against Beverley Watson. Grudges he could handle. It was anonymous, motiveless killings which were more difficult to deal with, because if there was no motive for this attack, then the killer might strike again at any time. And the last thing White Pine Bay needed, on top of the crap it had already endured, was a serial killer.

"Well…" The hesitation crept into her voice, and her fingers began to wring the handkerchief more forcefully. "I loved my sister, Sheriff. God knows, she wasn't perfect. But then, who is, right?" He nodded, and she filled the silence. "Beverley… well, she liked attention. From men. The wrong sort of men, if you get what I mean."

"Violent men?"

"Well… no." Carmella Hawthorn leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. "Married men. Every now and again she'd phone me up, full of excitement, telling me she'd fallen for someone, and this time she was sure he was the guy, that he was going to leave his family for her. It broke my heart to see her making the same mistakes, over and over again. Why do you think some people are like that, Sheriff?"

_Because people are people,_ he wanted to say. _Because they're too small-minded to recognise when they're stuck in the rat-maze, and because sometimes it's easier, more comfortable, to be the victim than to take control of your own life._ But he knew it wasn't what Beverley Watson's sister wanted to hear, and this wasn't the time for waxing philosophical.

"I don't know," he said. "Did your sister ever mention names to you?"

"Oh, I can't remember," she said, too quickly. He merely looked at her, the same practised cop-stare that came naturally to anyone who wore the uniform for any length of time, and she shifted in her seat. "I mean, I'm sure she did, in the beginning. But after a while… well, I stopped really listening. It was the same story every time, just with different men. I never thought their names would be important. None lasted more than a few months, a year at most. Do you… do you think one of them might have done this to her?"

"It's one possibility I'll be investigating," he said, in his best neutral tone. It seemed the most likely reason for a murder. If Beverley Watson had threatened to expose one of her paramours, it was a solid motive. "One more thing. When you arrived, was the front door open?"

"Um, no, it was closed, as was the back door. But it wasn't locked."

"Thank you. My Deputy advises me that your husband's coming to pick you up, Mrs. Hawthorn." He reached into his pocket and handed her a card with his office details on. "If you think of anything else, any names that Beverley might have mentioned, any hint that she was afraid of someone or had been threatened in any way, I want you to call me."

She nodded and took the card, grasping it to her chest like a life-line. "I will. Thank you, Sheriff. And please, find the bastard who did this to my sister. Find him, so that he can be brought to justice."

He merely nodded as he stood. _Justice._ Ha. He'd believed in justice once, when he'd been young and naïve, and the world had been black and white, good and bad, right and wrong. But he'd learnt a lot of lessons since then, and many of them hard. He'd long since stopped believing in the subjective concept embodied by the uniform and the badge fastened to his belt, replacing the code of justice with his own code of morals, letting his own conscience dictate his professional behaviour. So far, that code had served him better than any court of law.

His feet took him through the house and into the bedroom, where Fitzpatrick's head of grey hair was visible beyond the foot of the bed. The next thing Romero saw was the blood, pooled on the floor, soaking into the carpet beneath the pale, still body of Miss Beverley Watson. She was clad in black lingerie, in a state of partial undress; not the most dignified way to have died.

A quick glance around the bedroom showed Romero a blood-spatter pattern across one wall, and judging by the fact that the furniture was intact and nothing broken, he surmised that she hadn't put up a struggle before having her throat slashed. That meant that she either knew her killer, or that he'd caught her by surprise.

"Ah, Alex." Fitzpatrick stood up, straightening the glasses which were perched on the end of his nose. "You're a little late to this party. Then again, I'd say we're all a little late."

Romero gestured at the corpse. "How long has she been like this?"

"Days, I'd wager. Two or three; maybe more. I won't be able to tell for sure until I've done an autopsy."

"You think that's necessary? The cause of death seems pretty obvious."

"Yes, well. I have some first year med students who need the practice. And who knows, we may find something interesting."

Romero shook his head. Coroners were a breed of their own, and Fitzpatrick was no exception. He was never disrespectful to the living, but seemed to consider cadavers to be little more than empty shells which his med students could carve up in the name of furthering their education.

"Before you start slicing and dicing, what else can you tell me?" he asked.

Fitzpatrick gestured him over, and he crouched down beside the dead woman's body. "Well, the underwear is from Lacey's Lingerie on Fifth Street. Same place my wife shops. Probably not the PR the company was looking for, though. As for the cause of death, the jugular and carotid have both been severed with a bladed instrument, probably a kitchen knife, though we have yet to recover the weapon. Judging by the splatter and the way she's fallen, I'd guess she was killed in situ. Looks like a single clean slash, not done with enough force to sever the windpipe. She died from blood loss… wouldn't have taken more than a minute."

"Any evidence of assault?" he asked, indicating the way part of her underwear had been removed.

"Sexual assault?" Fitzpatrick shook his head. "I'd say she was undressing herself. Had this been a sexually motivated killing, I'd expect to see bruising around the arms, wrists or neck. Again, I'll check it out during the autopsy, but it's not looking that way at the moment."

"Small mercy."

"Maybe. This may sound harsh, but a DNA sample would make it easier to identify the killer. Speaking of which," Fitzpatrick said, handing him a sealed evidence bag, "one of your boys found this out in the living room. I'll take it back to the lab and run some tests, then forward you the results so you can put it through the database."

Romero took the bag, turning it over to examine it from all angles. It was a tissue, covered in what looked like blood.

"Can't find any other injuries on her body which would warrant the use of that," the coroner said.

"Perhaps she had a nosebleed."

"Perhaps. But if that blood belongs to her killer, it could go a long way towards helping us catch this guy."

"You'll let me know as soon as you have something?"

"Of course. Now, if you don't mind, could you fetch a body bag from my car? The sooner I get the person formally known as Miss Watson back to the morgue, the sooner I can put my students to work on her, and the faster you'll get your answers."

Romero left the room; he needed to check on the situation with the crowd anyway, and he had to admit, he could use a dose of fresh air. After twenty years on the job, he'd become used to seeing a lot of things, but seeing murdered women always left an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. It simply struck too close to home for comfort. But that was yet another price he had to pay, and right now, regardless of that knot of tension, he had a killer to catch… before he struck again.


	2. No Such Thing As Normal

My Town

_2. No Such Thing As Normal_

It was a dull, grey morning, the forests blanketed by white mist, the hills topped by low cloud. The weather suited Romero's mood just fine, and as he drove his Hummer back to White Pine Bay from the morgue in nearby Scotswood, he felt as if that blanket of mist was descending over his own mind, sucking thought and emotion from his body and into the uniform grey.

Not many of Fitzpatrick's students had looked thrilled about the delivery of a new body, but that wasn't Romero's problem. He'd left the coroner with his students in the hopes that he could get back to the office and start filling out paperwork before the rush of the day. He'd made a brief stop at a garage to refuel his car with gas, and his own body with machine-generated bitter caffeine, before hitting the main highway.

Something caught his attention, but it was a moment before his tired brain caught up with his eyes. Taking his foot off the gas, he let his Hummer roll to a stop as he squinted towards the nearby tree line, where there was a triangular patch of blue in a field, right where the forest ended. As he opened the car door, he popped open the catch on his holster. Sure, it could just be a coincidence that somebody was camping so close to White Pine Bay, but as a general rule he didn't trust coincidences. They were dangerous things to put your faith in.

The morning air was still as he made his way across the field, the green grass springing beneath his boots. No birds called out to each other, or if they did, he didn't hear them. Nor was there a breeze, to brush against the tree-tops, caressing them with a quiet swish. It felt as if the whole world was holding its breath, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"Hello," he called out, once he was within a dozen paces of the tent. "Is anybody about?"

Nothing. Not even a muted whisper to suggest that somebody was trying to be silent within the tent.

"I'm with the sheriff's department of White Pine Bay," he continued, approaching the mobile abode with one hand resting casually on the grip of his weapon. "I'm going to give you five seconds to come out of your tent, or I'm going to open it myself."

He waited, and the silence of the forest waited with him. After a count of ten, just to be sure, he crouched down and reached out for the zip, the cold metal chill to his fingertips. Drawing his gun, he pulled back the open tent flap, his weapon held out. The tent was uninhabited, but a few items showed that it probably hadn't been vacant for long. A single blue thermal sleeping bag was open in the middle of the tent, a pair of long-johns abandoned on top of it. Nearby was a large back-pack clearly designed for the serious camper, and a couple of tins of soup were just visible within.

"Is there something I can help you with?"

Romero silently cursed his tired senses as he withdrew from the tent and looked around for the speaker. It was a woman, her flame-red hair pulled back into a rough ponytail, and she was standing just on the edge of her campsite beneath the trees. In one hand she held a toiletry bag clasped to her chest, and the fingers of her other hand held closed her rainproof coat against the chill of the damp morning air. With her new-but-worn hiking boots and tight-fitting leggings, she looked the sort who spent a lot of time outdoors.

But he still didn't believe in coincidences.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Not breaking any laws, if that's what you're wondering," she said, and his ears picked up a British lilt to her words. It wasn't the strongest English accent he'd ever heard, but it was there.

"That's not what I was wondering, and not what I asked," he replied.

He could sense her caution, see it in the way she held herself and refused to come closer, and it didn't escape his notice when she arched one dark brown eyebrow as she glanced over the gun he still held in his hand. He didn't put the weapon away, though.

"My name's Grace Westall," she said. He waited for her to continue, and she gestured at his gun. "If you'd like to put that away, I'd be more than happy to get my ID from my tent, if you want to see it."

He relented, holstering his weapon once more, and some of the tension disappeared from the woman as she took on a more relaxed posture.

"There, see," she said, waiting for him to take a step back before she approached her tent. "There's no need for any of that nonsense. You Americans like your guns far too much. I could almost think it's a compensation thing."

He didn't bother responding as she ducked inside the tent. There was the sound of a bag being rooted through, and she returned with a maroon-coloured passport, which she handed to him. He opened it up at the data page, and found himself looking at a clear picture of the woman. _Grace Anna Westall,_ it read. _Date of birth, 09 Mar 1983. Place of birth, Manchester._ And the passport was still within date. Somewhat satisfied, he handed the ID back to her.

"Happy?" she asked, running her eyes over his face as if searching for further protest. They were grey eyes, deep like the low clouds which hugged the nearby hills, and he sensed a canny intelligence lurking behind them.

"What are you doing out here, Grace?" he asked.

"Camping," she retorted.

"Why here?"

"It reminds me of home." He gave her a stony look, and she obligingly filled the silence. "I take it you've never been to northern England? It's very dreary and dull. Rains a lot, too."

"And your purpose for being in the US?"

"Research. I'm a historian. I'm writing my dissertation on the emergence and disappearance of small frontier towns during the colonial period, and modern economic factors which influence their growth and development." She smiled. "This is usually the point where people fall asleep."

"You're a little out of the way for doing research on frontier towns," he pointed out.

"I caught a lift this far yesterday, intending to visit White Pine Bay, but it was quite late when I was dropped off. I opted to camp out for the night, and visit the town by day." When he said nothing, she asked, "is that a crime?"

"What sorts of things will you be doing in White Pine Bay?"

"Oh, you know, research stuff," she said evasively. "Poking around the library archives, asking questions of people whose families have been established here for generations. Collating my research notes. That sort of thing."

A dozen thoughts ran through his head as the woman watched him with her cool grey eyes. The first was that this was the _last_ thing he needed right now. Life in White Pine Bay wasn't exactly peaceful, but on the whole it worked because everything was organised, everybody knew their place, and nobody rocked the boat. Not for very long, anyway. But the town's economy was not something that he wanted scrutinised closely, because as far as economies went, it occupied a very dark area.

People had always grown cannabis in the wooded valleys of White Pine Bay. At first it had been a fairly small-scale operation, run by families and friends. Then, things had become more commercial. Gangs had started to form. War had broken out amongst people fighting for the best valleys with the best soil and most favourable climates. Twenty years ago, at the height of the violence, half a dozen self-styled cannabis lords had brought in muscle and guns, and anybody who stood in their way was fair game. It hadn't been a good time to be a cop, and it had been an even worse time to be a naïve cop with a flawed black and white view of morality. Those closest to him had paid the price for his dreams of freedom and justice. And after he'd buried the woman he'd loved, and the child she'd borne him, and emptied an entire barrel of bullets into the skull of his corrupt predecessor, he'd taken the badge for himself and systemically waged a one-man war on those who were guilty of taking away from him everything he had ever cared about.

He'd had allies, of course. A few of the cops weren't as bad as the others, their shades of grey less dark than the tarnished black souls of the murderers, thieves and blackmailers who made up the bulk of the small police force. And there had been Gil; a young man determined to come out on top, who'd sworn to help a hate-fuelled Romero clean up the town, as long as he got the lion's share of the crop. Gil would do things right, he'd promised. There would be jobs for those who wanted them. Money would go back into the community. There could be no war, no anarchy, as long as he monopolised the merchandise. And so far, their arrangement had worked, Gil's operation running as smooth as a well-oiled machine, and the police force stocked with, for the most part, decent, hard-working men.

If this woman asked the wrong sort of questions to the wrong sort of people, he'd end up with another body on his hands. And if she turned up face-down in the bay, or went missing altogether, it might draw unwanted attention to the small town he had protected for half his life. There was only one thing he could see to do; to put her under his protection and tell Gil and his people to avoid her until she left.

"This isn't the Cotswolds," he said. "This is a dangerous place to go camping. Especially for a woman alone."

"That almost sounded like a threat, Sheriff..?"

"Romero," he replied, realising that in the heat of the moment he'd forgotten to give his name. "And it wasn't a threat, just an observation. We get a lot of cougars here, along with wildcats and sometimes even black bear. It's dangerous to go walking in the woods alone, especially if you're unarmed."

"Well, thank you for the warning, Sheriff. I'll be sure to get my things packed up quickly."

"There's a motel a mile or two up the road," he said. "The only one in town. It's hardly the Ritz, but it's clean enough and the rooms are cheap. Make your way there, and I'll ensure there's a room waiting for you."

"That's very kind of you," she smiled.

He let her believe that lie. Though he was loathe to give her free run of the town, at least if she was staying at Bates Motel, he'd know where she'd be for most of the time. And since he now had Norma Bates firmly in hand, it wouldn't be too hard in keeping tabs on the foreign woman.

"Have a pleasant day," he told her. "And if I can offer you one more piece of advice; don't go catching rides with strangers. You never know who might pick you up."

"Duly noted. And your concern is appreciated. Good day, Sheriff."

Ignoring the casual dismissal, he turned back towards his Hummer, and for the moment tried to forget about the woman in the field as he braced himself for the task ahead. Speaking with Norma Bates, even at the best of times, was like wrestling a bull by the horns, and he had a feeling that today was going to be no different.

o - o - o - o - o

By the time he pulled up outside the motel, the sun had burnt off some of the early morning mist, revealing an azure sky which was just beginning to peep out from behind the grey clouds. It did little to improve Romero's mood. His cup of machine-coffee had gone cold whilst he'd been talking to the woman from England, and there was a dull throbbing sensation behind his eyes which he recognised as a symptom of not enough sleep.

But how was a man supposed to get a decent night's sleep when his damn dreams woke him every few hours? Or when his deputy was calling him to handle some woman who'd gone and gotten herself killed? Didn't he deserve a break? Was twenty-four hours away from the mad-house of White Pine Bay too much to ask for?

Apparently so. As he stepped out of his car, he noticed Norma Bates backing out of one of the motel rooms, dragging a cleaning cart behind her. She was wearing a light blue uniform, perhaps because she believed it gave her an air of professionalism.

She whirled around when she heard him approach, her eyes creasing momentarily into a frown. Then she ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing down a few tufts that had worked their way loose from her bun.

"Norma," he said, greeting her by the name she'd told him to use. He only did it because he knew it rankled her, that he had not extended to her the same courtesy. "How's the motel business?"

"Oh, great," she said, gesturing at her cart with an air of melodrama. "These are the messiest people I have _ever_ known, and I've raised two boys. They leave their crap everywhere, they don't switch off the lights, and I'm sure they're still smoking when my back's turned."

"That's trimmers for you."

Her mouth fell open, and with some satisfaction he noted the surprise on her face. He wished he had a camera.

"You know what they are?" she hissed.

"I met a woman, camping in one of the fields just outside of town," he said, pointedly ignoring her question. Let her wonder exactly how much he knew. He owed her no explanations. "I told her to come here, and that you'd have a free room for her."

"What? I don't have any free rooms," she said, in a petulant tone of voice. Norma Bates, he'd decided, was something of an enigma and a loose cannon, all rolled into one. She went from fearsome shrew to childish tantrums at the drop of a hat. She was clever, true… just not as clever as she thought she was. "All my rooms are taken up by the trimmers."

"Gil's men won't mind doubling up for a while," he assured her. "If any of them argue, tell them to come and speak to me."

He turned back for his car, and could practically hear her spluttering in objection.

"What, that's it?" she demanded. "You think you can just come here and dictate to me who's going to be staying in my own motel?"

"Yes," he said quietly, rounding on her. She very nearly flinched, but managed to stand her ground. "That's exactly what I think I can do."

He could see her mind ticking over, considering his words, thinking about everything she knew of him. Or at least, thought she knew. She'd seen him empty four rounds into a man mere days ago, and walk away as casually as if he'd put down a rabid dog. She knew that he'd covered for her and her sons, as far as the deaths of Keith Summers and Zack Shelby were concerned. She'd heard everything he'd said to Jake Abernathy, and she'd been in the town long enough now to know who Gil was, and what trimmers were.

"Well, fine," she said at last. "But don't think this is going to be a regular thing. I could just do with the extra money, seeing as how my business is going to fold once they build the new bypass."

Movement from the house at the top of the concrete stairs caught his attention before he could respond. Both of Norma's boys began to descend the stairs, the youngest, Norman, carrying what was probably his school backpack, followed by Dylan, five years his elder and too old for school. Both boys watched him hawkishly as they made their way to the Hummer that Gil had provided for Dylan, and it was only when they got closer that Romero noticed the faded yellow-brown bruising around Norman's eyes. That was unusual; normally it was the eldest of the sons who sported the wounds of war.

"What happened to Norman's face?" he asked, as the car carrying both boys drove off.

"One of the boys at school punched him in the nose," Norma said, her lower lip catching between her teeth.

"Really? Norman doesn't seem like the type of kid to get into fights," he pointed out.

"Oh, well, it was pretty one-sided as far as fights go." She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Apparently, Norman had been mooning over some girl, and her boyfriend took exception."

"When was this?"

"Friday night, I think. At that school dance thing."

"Norman went to the dance?"

"Yes. With Emma. Decody. You know, the young girl with cystic fibrosis?"

He nodded. "I know her father. Nice family."

"Aren't they? It's such a terrible shame about Emma. She works here for me at weekends, you know? I thought it might give her a feeling of normalcy, to have a little part time job."

"You're a samaritan, Norma," he said dryly.

She merely smiled at him, and tucked a lock of blonde hair behind one ear. He'd noticed she did that when she was trying to hide something.

"And speaking of work, it sounds like I have a room to clean out before your mystery woman gets here," she said, attempting to dismiss him. This time, however, he did not ignore the dismissal. Norma's attempt at changing the subject had not gone unnoticed. The subject of Norman's school life seemed to make her uncomfortable, so he decided to push his luck.

"Did Norman tell you that one of his teachers didn't show up for class yesterday?" he asked.

Her eyes immediately shot up, as if she was trying to recall a conversation. "Hmm, no, I don't think so. But he rarely tells me anything these days. Honestly, it's easier to get blood out of concrete than it is to get information out of a teenage boy. Why?"

He took a step closer, noting the alarm in her eyes, the defensive posture of her body as she gripped the handle of her cleaning cart more tightly.

"You might as well hear it from me," he said. "Today, Principal Hutchins is going to make an announcement to the staff and students at Norman's school. Last night, Miss Watson was found dead inside her home."

The gasp of shock, covered so eloquently by a lift of her hand to her mouth, almost let him believe that Norma truly was surprised by the news. But he didn't believe in coincidences, and so far, everything that had happened over the past twenty four hours was pointing towards that Friday night when he had sent Jake Abernathy to a watery grave. His gut was telling him that there was more going on here than he knew about, and unlike his mind, his gut didn't need sleep to function well.

"My God, that poor woman. What happened to her?" Norma asked.

"She was murdered. Her throat was slashed."

She shivered, running her hands over her bare arms. "Just when I think life here is starting to get back to normal, something like this happens."

For a moment he felt sorry for her. She hadn't asked to buy a property that was likely going to be obsolete within the next couple of years. She hadn't wanted to be raped by Keith Summers, nor blackmailed by Zack Shelby, and threatened by Jake Abernathy. She had, largely, been a victim in most of what had happened in the town, but she seemed to have come out stronger and wiser for it. "There's no such thing as normal, in White Pine Bay," he told her.

Her expression softened, but again, it was a measured response. "Poor Norman. He's going to be devastated. Miss Watson was one of his favourite teachers; the only one to show any sort of encouragement towards him when we first moved here. If there's anything I can do, Sheriff, please let me know."

He shook his head, more convinced than ever that this was an act. In all the weeks he'd known her, Norma Bates had never been helpful, nor sounded so falsely sincere.

"Just try to keep out of trouble, Norma."

He turned back to his car and heard her spluttering objections once more. This time, he ignored her. In White Pine Bay, nobody knew everything, but everybody knew something. He suspected that more than one somebody knew something about Beverley Watson's death, and he was going to find out who knew what… and then decide what he needed to do about it.


	3. Brothers

My Town

_3. Brothers_

It felt as if a great weight was crushing Norma Bates' chest, stopping her from drawing breath, restricting her breathing to the point where she felt light-headed. As Sheriff Romero's car disappeared down the long road to town, she reached out and grasped once more at the handle of her cleaning cart, using it to steady herself.

_Oh God, he knows something._

The thought danced across her mind, accompanied by the image of the Sheriff sitting in his office, plotting and speculating, pulling the strands of the web he had woven across White Pine Bay. His enquiry into Norman's black eye had been _too_ casual.

But… there wasn't anything to know. Was there? Yes, Norman had gotten a black eye from one of the boys at school. And yes, Miss Watson had offered to give him a lift home. And now the woman was dead. But that didn't mean anything. It didn't mean Norman was involved. He was just a boy. A gentle boy, who'd been heart-broken when the first girl he'd been intimate with had later spurned his affection, who'd cried genuine tears of grief when the stray dog he'd gotten attached to had been hit by a car and killed. He was a sensitive boy. He had never hurt anybody who hadn't deserved it.

A chill breeze blew over her bare arms, causing her to shiver, her skin to turn to gooseflesh as she recalled the night she'd come home from the dock and found Norman running in the rain as if the hounds of hell themselves were after him.

"_Mother…" he'd said, his clothes drenched, hair plastered to his head, eyes fearful and confused. "Emma left, and Miss Watson said she'd drive me home, but all I remember is running in the rain."_

It didn't mean anything. Yes, Norman had blacked out after he'd attacked his father in defence of his mother, and after he'd lunged at Zack Shelby, allowing Dylan the opportunity to grab the man's gun. It was as if violence flipped a switch inside him, shutting his mind down completely. He didn't rage. He didn't get angry. Not like so many other men she'd known. Instead he grew calm, detached… and incapable of remembering his actions afterwards.

He wasn't a bad boy. He wasn't. He just wanted to protect his mother. That was why he'd attacked his father, and Shelby. There was nothing malicious about it… just defence of the person he loved most in this world. Yes, Norman had killed, but he was not a killer. He had nothing to do with Miss Watson's death. Nothing at all.

Unsure that she'd fully convinced herself, she set to the task of completely stripping out one of the bedrooms. In less than thirty minutes, room number one was as clean as it had ever been, the former occupant's clothes and personal effects dumped in one of the other rooms. Part of her hoped that the trimmers Dylan had brought home _would_ complain about doubling up, just so she could tell them what Romero had said, about speaking to him.

It was so strange. For weeks she'd been certain that Romero was out to get her. He'd been convinced, and rightly so, that she'd killed Keith Summers. He'd hounded her constantly, having her house watched, bringing her in for questioning, requesting a search warrant, even arresting her when Keith's watch had been found in the harbour. She'd hated and feared him, and even when she'd explained to him what had happened, how Summers had attacked her, how Shelby had blackmailed her, how the pair of them had used the motel to keep and groom girls for sex, she was certain that he still disliked her. When Abernathy had shown up, and made further threats, Romero had barely done anything, seemed entirely unconcerned by the whole situation, calmly explaining that he didn't have enough information to go on.

She'd thought he was a bureaucrat, too concerned about red tape and his own badge to care about helping a woman in need. Then, she'd watched him calmly, even coldly, offer Jake Abernathy a 'new' business deal, lulling the man into a false sense of security with the same detachment that he'd listened to Norma's tale of the sex-traffickers. Now, Jake Abernathy was sleeping with the fishes, quite literally, and Norma was frightened for a new reason. She didn't know who's side Romero was on, or if he was even on any side at all. She was also left with the distinct impression that he could see right through her, discerning every thought as it passed through her mind.

Halfway through putting out fresh towels for the occupant of room seven, she heard the roar of a car engine, and the screech of tyres on loose stone, and she froze, her heart thudding in her chest. Once, something as innocuous as a car pulling up would not have given her a moment's concern. But that was before White Pine Bay. Before her life had been turned upside down and inside out.

Peering out of the window, she saw Dylan climb out of his huge car, and a man familiar to her by sight disembarked from the passenger side. Norma let out the breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding, and smoothed down her pale blue shirt before stepping out into the crisp morning air. When Dylan's eyes fell on her he pursed his lips briefly, but she was used to his expressions by now. Her eldest son had always been headstrong and independent, with little regard for anybody but himself. Granted, he seemed to have become more mature with age, but at twenty two, she still thought of him as a boy. That view, she suspected, was what caused most of the friction between them. Dylan didn't like to be mothered, preferred to find his own way through life. She just hoped the path he was on wouldn't take him into unnecessary danger.

"Hey Norma," he said, and she bit her tongue. His refusal to refer to her by her matriarchal title rankled, but she didn't want him to know it. After everything he'd done for her recently, she was willing to let him win this one. "Do you mind if Remo grabs a cup of coffee?"

She glanced at the elder man who seemed to shadow her son everywhere these days. The whites of his eyes were red, and he looked like he was a week overdue for a shave. If there was anybody in need of coffee, it was 'Remo.'

"There's a fresh jug on the machine in the office," she said, gesturing back to the building behind her.

"Thanks Mrs. B." Remo croaked, before staggering off.

"Is he stoned?" Norma hissed at her son, when she judged Remo safely out of hearing range.

"Nah, Remo doesn't smoke. He's just hung over."

"Oh, well, that's fine then."

Dylan rolled his eyes at her tone, but quickly became more sober.

"What did Romero want?" he asked, his eyebrows lowering into a frown, casting shadows across his grey eyes.

Norma felt her own eyebrows rise up in opposition. "What's that supposed to mean?" She demanded. When he didn't respond, she continued. "Less than a week ago, you were telling me that 'he's the man' and that I needed to trust him. And now you're quizzing me on why he's talking to me? Don't _you_ trust him?"

He took her by the elbow, leading her back into room seven before she could even think of protesting, and then put the door to after checking to make sure Remo wasn't loitering nearby. Judging by the look of the man, Norma suspected he was likely passed out in one of the office chairs.

"Listen," Dylan said, his voice quiet, patient, the same as it had been when he'd been teaching her how to shoot the gun he'd given her last Friday. "I know what I said. And I still think it was the right call at the time. But I've been asking some questions of Gil. And you know what he said?"

Norma shook her head, almost afraid to ask.

"He said, 'You're a good worker, Dylan. But if Romero decides that you're no longer welcome in this town, you better get your stuff and get out within an hour of hearing that rumour, and forget you ever heard my name.' And I'll tell you something, Norma; Gil isn't a man who spooks easily."

She clutched at the neck of her shirt, then lowered her hands when she realised what she was doing. "You think he knew about Keith Summers and Jack Shelby's whole… operation?"

"I don't know. But I've been thinking it over. Remember when you told him about Summers, and how and why I shot Shelby? He didn't even blink. Think about it; if he knows everything that's going on in this town, how did _this_ escape his attention? And why was he covering for us? And how did he know where to get the money from, that he threw in the harbour?"

"We don't know what was in that bag, Dylan," she countered. She wanted to believe that Romero was on the right side, that he wouldn't be the type of man to sit by and do nothing whilst others trafficked girls for sex, because she was fed up of liars, and cheaters, and men who wanted nothing but personal gain. She wanted to believe the best of somebody. Anybody.

"What was he talking to you about?"

"Nothing. Just small talk." He gave her a look which suggested he didn't believe her, and she sighed. "Okay, fine. He said he found a woman camping out on the highway, and he wanted me to give her a room."

"Did you tell him we're fully booked?"

"Oh, so it's 'we' now?" she said. "I thought you were moving out?"

"Norma…"

"Of course I told him," she said, rankled by his warning tone. "And he said your friends wouldn't mind bunking together for a while. And that if they had any problems with that, they could go and speak to him. Do _you_ want to do that?"

"Why was he looking so strange at Norman?" he asked, ignoring the question she shot at him.

"He just wanted to know how Norman got his black eye."

Dylan merely looked at her, his grey eyes showing more wisdom and maturity than they should for a man his age, and she felt her resolve waver. Dylan knew that Norman was her soft-spot, her one weakness, and he knew she would do anything to protect him. Luckily, Dylan was just as protective of his younger brother; it was the one thing Norma and her eldest son had been able to bond over.

"I'm… concerned," she admitted. "Romero told me that one of Norman's teachers was found dead in her home last night."

Dylan barely batted an eyelid, proof of how hard he'd become since tracking his family down to their new motel business. "That sucks," he said. "Have they caught whoever did it?"

"I don't know. I don't think so." A familiar pain twisted through her heart, and she felt her face soften against her will. "Dylan, that night on the docks, that night when I went to meet Abernathy, and Romero shot him…" He nodded for her to continue. "Norman went to the winter dance at the school, with Emma. And when I got home, I found Norman running along the road, with no memory of how he got there. He said Emma was upset and she left, and Miss Watson offered him a ride home, but he has no memory of how he got back to the motel."

Dylan let out a long, slow breath, briefly clasping his hands together at the back of his head as a thousand questions flickered across his youthful face. Norma didn't even give him chance to speak the words she feared to hear.

"It doesn't mean anything," she said.

"You told me that when Norman attacked his father, to protect you, he blacked out. Had no memory of the event." Norma nodded, praying her eldest son wouldn't continue drawing the same conclusions which had passed through her own mind. "Once, when we were in the kitchen here, Norman got angry with me, and he came at me with a cleaver. Later, he claimed he couldn't remember having ever done such a thing."

Norma closed her eyes. Dylan had never told her that before. What had he done, to anger Norman so greatly?

"And the last time he went catatonic and lost his memory," Dylan continued, "was when he flipped and attacked Shelby."

"The man was holding a gun on us!" she said, in defence of her son.

"But still. If it's happened again, if Norman's forgotten how he got home from that dance… then God knows what he's done." He shook his head. "This is some serious shit, Norma."

"Don't you think I know that?" she asked, unable to help the tone of despair that crept into her voice. All she'd ever wanted was to live a normal life, and provide for her family. Now, she had one dead husband, one of her sons was working for a drug dealer, and the other was a volatile amnesiac. Where, oh where had she gone wrong?

"Hey," Dylan said, reaching out to rest a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay. For all we know, this is all just a coincidence. With a bit of luck, it will all blow over."

"And if it doesn't?" she asked with a shiver.

He looked at her for a long moment, in which she felt every single beat of her heart.

"I won't let Romero take Norman," Dylan said, and she heard the promise in his voice. "I'll take him as far away as necessary, to keep him safe."

"_We__'ll_ take him," she said, feeling her son's courage stiffen her back, straightening her posture.

"Yeah," he agreed. "That's what I meant, Norma. We'll take care of him together."


	4. Strangers

My Town

_4. Strangers_

The coffee machine bubbled quietly in the corner, its gentle hum a constant companion to the hours spent in the office. The smell of the hot beverage permeated the air, made sweeter by the aroma of the vanilla air freshener Norma had hung beneath the counter; it helped to disguise the pervasive smell of dampness that she just hadn't been able to get rid of. The realtor hadn't mentioned the damp, when he'd recommended the place to her. Then again, he hadn't mentioned the proposed bypass, either, which just showed how trustworthy your average estate agent was.

When she heard the office door open, Norma glanced up, and found herself looking at a short young woman with fiery red hair and slate-grey eyes. Those eyes casually took in everything in the room, sliding over the 'no vacancies' sign in the window before settling on Norma.

"Good morning," Norma said, straightening up and offering her best professional smile. She'd been practising in the mirror, and she was certain she had it down pat.

"Hello," the woman replied, in a cultured, sing-song voice. "I was directed here by a very surly officer. I was told you might have a spare room for me."

"Of course, come on in," Norma said, fixing the smile in place. Compared to Abernathy, and those trimmers Dylan had brought home, the woman looked downright normal. It was a welcome change. "Sheriff Romero came by earlier and asked me to set a room aside for you. You're in luck; it's the last one."

"How fortuitous."

"You're from England?" Norma asked, practising her small talk skills.

"That's right."

"Do you know Mr. Decody?"

The woman gave her a blank stare. "Who?"

"Mr. Decody. He's a taxidermist. Lives in the town. He's from England, too."

"Ah." The woman shrugged off a heavy-looking backpack topped with a rolled-up tent and sleeping bag before stepping towards the counter. "It seems to be a popular misconception over here that all English people know each other. How many people would you say live in White Pine Bay?"

"Oh, I don't know… a couple of thousand?" she guessed. In truth, she had no idea. Perhaps she ought to find out. Perhaps she should have asked the realtor before buying the bloody money-trap of a motel.

"And do you know them all?" the woman asked.

"No, not really."

"There are over sixty million people living in the UK, and God knows how many ex-pats around the world. I'd probably have a better chance of winning the lottery than of walking into a small American town where by pure happenstance lives a person I know from England."

"A simple 'no' would have done," Norma said. She knew that it came out sounding curt, but she couldn't help it.

"I'm sorry," the woman sighed, giving her a tight smile. "But every place I go, it's always, 'Oh, you're British, you must know so-and-so, or suchabody.' Last place I visited, I had someone ask me if I knew the Queen. And when I sarcastically replied that yes, we often took afternoon tea together, I was taken seriously. And just in case you were planning on reiterating any of the other inane questions I've been asked recently; no, I'm not a member of the royal family; I don't drive or even own an Aston Martin; and I've never been on a James Bond set."

"So… ah… what brings you to America?" Norma asked, revising her previous 'normal' assessment of the clearly crazy person standing in her office.

"Research. I'm a historian."

"Really? And what sorts of things are you researching?"

"The history of small towns, and cultural and economic influences on their growth."

"That sounds… interesting," Norma said, desperately groping for a word that didn't sound too much like a lie.

"To be honest, the topic puts most people to sleep, but I enjoy it, and I like to think that my research is important. My name's Grace, by the way. Grace Westall."

"What a lovely name. I'm Norma Bates." Norma accepted the woman's hand, shaking it with a firm grip. "You can call me Norma."

"So, about that room..?" Grace prompted.

"Of course." Norma opened up her reservation book and picked up her pen. "How long will you be staying in White Pine Bay?"

"That probably depends on your rates. I've got enough on my card for at least a couple of nights, but I'm waiting for additional grant money to come through, to help fund the final stage of my research. Which reminds me, I really need a computer with internet access, so I can check my bank account. Is there a library or an internet café nearby?"

"Yes, in the town. That's a forty minute walk away, but if you don't mind waiting a couple of hours, my son should be back from running some errands. I can get him to give you a ride into town."

"Oh, I don't want to put anybody out," Grace said.

"It's no problem at all. Dylan hardly needs an excuse to get away from the motel for ten minutes."

"Do you and your son run the motel together?"

"Sons," Norma corrected. "I have two. Norman's still in school, and Dylan… well, he's around, and he helps out when he can. He likes to do his own thing, though. Most mornings, I wake up and wonder whether I'll find him still here." As different as night and day, her boys were, and though Norman would always be her favourite, her precious younger son, she had to admit that were it not for Dylan, she'd probably be dead.

"It must be nice, to be able to work so closely with your family."

"Hmm? Oh, yes," she replied. "It's wonderful." She reached out to the keysafe and picked out the key to room seven. "If you'd like to follow me, I'll show you to your room, and you can get settled in."

She led the younger woman out of the office and down past the row of doors.

"Have you lived in White Pine Bay long, Norma?"

"No, me and my sons only arrived here a few weeks ago."

"What made you want to move here?"

"After my husband died, I wanted a fresh start. This place was on the market and seemed ideal."

"And how are you finding life here so far?"

"Oh, you know, it's got its ups and downs," Norma said, though her smile was beginning to feel a lot more forced. Grace's questions reminded her of one of Romero's interrogations. Direct questions about her motives were not something she was fond of. "Here we go, room seven."

She slid the key into the door and turned the handle, stepping aside to give the English woman space to walk forward.

"Charming," Grace said.

"Why don't I give you chance to unpack your things and settle into the room, and whenever you're ready you can come along to the office and we'll finalise your booking," Norma suggested.

"That's a very polite way of telling me you'd like payment up-front." Before Norma could even open her mouth to defend herself, Grace ploughed on. "Please feel free to be blunt; I won't be offended. And of course, I'd be more than happy to pay an advance."

"Good." Norma inched towards the door. "I'm glad you understand. Just let me know if there's anything else you need, and I'd be more than happy to help."

"That's very kind of you. Thank you, Norma," Grace smiled. "I'll have a shower and get changed into something a little less worn, and then nip across to the office."

Stepping backwards, Norma closed the door behind her and then let out a deep sigh. Perhaps she should have mentioned something about the rowdy room occupants next door, or apologised for the lingering scent of weed, but there was only so much pleasant servitude she could manage in one day, and between Dylan's tiresome trimmers and Romero's mystery guest, she was quickly approaching her quota.

o - o - o - o - o

"What do you know about Beverley Watson?"

Romero asked the question, then nursed the silence which followed. Behind Principal Hutchins, a metre-long aquarium hummed and bubbled gently, the half-dozen angelfish swimming serenely within completely oblivious to the strong tones of sadness and worry which saturated the room. The principal's concern was both palpable and understandable. Nobody in White Pine Bay liked to draw attention to themselves; standing out from the crowd was not a healthy survival trait.

Hutchins removed his glasses, cleaned them once with a small clean cloth, and put them back on his head. Romero felt a moment of pity for the Principal. Hutchins wasn't a bad man. He ran the high school with a firm but fair hand, was liked by both teachers and students, and commanded a respected voice on the town's informal council. But somebody was dead, and now Romero had to find answers. That meant he had to be the sheriff. He had to ask questions. He had to put a man he liked in a potentially uncomfortable position.

"You have to understand, that I don't like to pry too much into my teachers' personal affairs," Hutchins said. "There has to be a boundary between management and staff. I'm sure you understand."

Romero said nothing. He understood only too well, but he couldn't afford sympathy. Failing to elicit the expected response, Hutchins broke the silence.

"Miss Watson was a lovely woman. A gentle soul. She would never hurt anyone. If she had a flaw, it was that she cared too much. She used to worry herself half to death about the kids in her class. You remember the scandal last year, when Molly Meechan got pregnant? Beverley barely slept for weeks, worrying over that poor girl. The one thing I do know is that she didn't deserve this fate. Whoever killed her is a true monster. I hope you find him, and that he swings for his crime."

"What about her personal life?" Romero prompted. "Did she ever speak of friends? Perhaps a boyfriend?"

Hesitation was written all over the principal's face, but he knew better than to try to lie.

"She never spoke of such things to me. But from time to time, I did hear… rumours."

"Rumours?"

"Things said quietly amongst the other teachers. The rumours were that Beverley used to… step out… from time to time, with men. Dalliances here and there. Weekends away. That sort of thing."

"Are we talking about married men?" he asked, recalling his interview with Miss Waton's sister.

Hutchins nodded. "But like I said, it was just rumour. I'm not sure how much truth there was to it, and she certainly never spoke about men to me. The truth is, as much as she was liked by everybody, I often saw her looking… well, quite pensive, sometimes even upset, as if she'd just lost her best friend. She was something of a loner… in many ways, a stranger."

A stranger. That just about summed up everybody in White Pine Bay. A community of people united by the secrets they shared, but strangers to each other out of necessity. No matter what mask they wore when you saw them on the streets and in the supermarkets, there were always different faces ready to be revealed when the masks came off.

"Can you think of anybody at all who might want to try to hurt Miss Watson?"

"No. Like I said, she was a bit of a loner, but she was well liked."

"What about parents?" he suggested. It was possible that the men she was 'stepping out' with may have had children at the school—a perfect and legitimate excuse for meeting up.

"I can't recall any problems with parents." Hutchins snorted. "Other than Mrs. Bates, of course. But I hardly think that's what you mean."

Romero leant forward slightly in his chair, focusing his gaze on the principal's blue eyes. "What about Mrs. Bates?"

"Well, she wasn't exactly thrilled when Beverley suggested that she send her son for counselling."

"For what reason did she want the boy to be counselled?"

"Norman isn't exactly integrating with the rest of the students as well as he could be," Hutchins admitted. "Beverley took a protective interest in the boy. I think she saw something of herself in him, when she was that age. And since it's not long since Norman's father passed away, and the family are new here, and with everything that's happened recently…"

Hutchins didn't finish that sentence. He knew better than to mention Zack Shelby's name in Romero's presence.

"…Beverley just thought that, in the absence of close friends to support him through his problems, Norman might benefit talking to a counsellor."

"And Mrs. Bates didn't like that suggestion?"

"Not at first. But she came around eventually, and arranged a session for Norman. But like I said, I don't think that's what you meant when you asked about parents."

Romero let out a slow, deep breath as he let the information sink in. His gut told him that Miss Watson's murder had been committed by a man, not a woman. A man who probably knew her intimately, given that she hadn't put up a struggle before being murdered in her underwear. It was probably just coincidence that Norma Bates' name was coming up, yet again, around a murder victim. But Romero didn't trust coincidences.

"In a couple of days," he said at last, "when things have settled down a bit, I'm going to want to talk to the rest of the staff here. And some of the students in Miss Watson's classes, too."

"Do you really think that's necessary?" Hutchins asked. But it was a half-hearted question. He already knew the answer.

"I'll be in touch," Romero said, standing. "In the meantime, if you think of anything…"

"You'll be the first to know," Hutchins agreed. "Believe me, Sheriff, I want you to find whoever did this and make him pay."

Romero nodded, and left. What he didn't say was that everybody paid the price for their mistakes, eventually. Karma kept score in the game of life, and there were times when it seemed White Pine Bay was a karmic hotspot. Miss Watson's killer would get what he deserved, regardless of whether Alex Romero had to help karma settle the debt which was owed.


	5. The Hunt Begins

My Town

_5. The Hunt Begins_

Life goes on. It was a fact that Romero was more than familiar with, and he saw it again two days after Miss Watson's body had been found. It was a typical Wednesday on Main Street; shops were open, men and women were going about their errands, the kids were absent, already in school, and the dreary grey cloud was beginning to lift.

He pulled up outside Rita's Diner and turned off the engine. A few people glanced at him as he stepped out of his car, but nobody stopped to speak. He didn't mind. His Wednesday morning ritual had been the same for as long as he could remember, a constant he could cling to when everything else changed. People came and people went, trees were cut down and even the shape of the coast changed year by year as the waves carved into the cliffs, but Wednesday mornings were his, and nobody would take them away from him.

The bell above the door tinkled as he entered the diner. Again, the few people present looked up, most of them cap-wearing men who worked at the single tiny lumber yard, but nobody called out for his attention; they turned their focus back to their breakfasts, or their own conversations.

He took his usual seat at the bar. A flier was waiting for him on the counter. _White Pine Bay Bi-Weekly,_ said the title, in large white letters. The town's equivalent of a newspaper. As the smell of roasting coffee assaulted his sense of smell, he picked up the flier and scanned it, until at last he found the article he was looking for.

_Much-loved Teacher Found Dead At Home,_ the headline read. _In the late hours of Monday night, local high-school teacher Miss Beverley Watson was found dead in her home on Fairweather Avenue by members of the family. Investigations into her apparent murder are ongoing, though police have yet to release a statement. The school where Miss Watson worked for several years have announced a day of remembrance, and donations are being accepted to raise funds to establish a memorial for the woman who touched so many lives._

"Here you go," said a warm voice from across the counter. A cup of steaming coffee was placed in front of him. "Coffee, one sugar, and just a dash of cream. And for breakfast, two slices of toast with a fried egg sunny-side up, two hash browns and a rasher of smoked bacon." Rita beamed a smile at him as she deposited the plate and clean cutlery wrapped in a napkin. "Though I swear, I'm gonna get you to try my home-grown oats one of these days. My porridge has put hairs on the chest of most of the men in this town."

"And yet you serve me the same thing every Wednesday," he pointed out.

She winked at him. "I know what you like."

Picking up the cutlery, he spread the napkin across his lap and slid the flier over to her. "Hot off the press?"

"My Jim's out delivering the last batch as we speak." She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and hesitated momentarily before speaking. "I hope it meets with your approval."

He waved his fork dismissively before spearing one of the hash browns. "It's fine."

"Good, good." Reassured, she stood up a little straighter and brushed an invisible spot from her clean white apron. "Say, I think I have a sausage left on the grill at the back. Why don't I get it for you?"

"I have enough already," he objected, but she rode roughshod over him.

"Oh, don't be silly! It's only going to go to waste. And besides, you're looking a bit tired. You look like you could use an extra meal. Busy man like you needs to keep his strength up, especially if you're to catch the fiend who killed poor Miss Watson."

Romero didn't bother with any further objections. Rita wasn't quite old enough to be his mother, but certainly a doting aunt. In truth, he owed her his life. After the mafia-style execution of his wife and son, Rita had taken him in and bullied him into staying healthy and sane enough to not only exact revenge, but ensure White Pine Bay was cleansed of the murderous scum forever. Had it not been for Rita, and her husband Jim who now ran the local print, he would have run off half-cocked and gotten himself killed in his fury to find his family's killers. White Pine Bay owed Rita more than it knew.

"Here we are," she said, dropping a still-sizzling sausage onto his plate with a pair of tongues.

"Thanks." He picked up his cup and, under the guise of sipping his coffee, lowered his voice so that nobody else in the diner could hear him speak. "What's happening in my town?"

She took a deep breath, and he could practically see her ordering her thoughts, trying to decide which piece of gossip needed telling first. Rita was the biggest gossip in White Pine Bay and beyond, but at least she was loyal. It was a trait which, Romero found, was sorely lacking in most people.

"Well," she said, leaning down on the counter and resting her elbows on the hard surface, "you know the Meechans, right?" He nodded, his mouth too full of toast to speak. "And you know how their youngest, Molly, went and got herself pregnant? And how Mr and Mrs Meechan sent her away, to stay with that aunt in Colorado?" Another nod. "I heard that Molly's had the child—a boy—and that he's been given over for adoption. Apparently, Molly's due back next week, so she can finish her education under the watchful eye of her folks. Of course, she'll have to repeat a year, but the Meechans are hoping she'll eventually get a place in college. She was a bright girl."

"Anything else?" The news about the girl was worth knowing, but not particularly relevant. Hutchins would make sure she settled back in.

"I did see that Bates woman's boy—the eldest one, with the pretty face?—driving some woman around yesterday. At first I thought she might be his squeeze, but Remo was in late yesterday, and he said she's some sort of scholar, staying up at the motel. And she's from England, too. Not sure what she's doing here of all places, but I thought it was a bit odd."

"I'll keep my eye on it," he assured her.

She merely cocked an eyebrow, failing to completely suppress a sardonic smile. "I'm sure you're not the only man in White Pine Bay who'll be doing just that."

"Is that all the gossip you have?" he asked, pointedly ignoring her last statement, and associated implications.

"News, darlin'. I purvey news. Not gossip."

_Six of one, half a dozen of the other,_ he thought to himself. But was he said was, "Of course. My apologies. And compliments to the chef for out-doing herself yet again with breakfast."

"It's on the house," she told him as he reached for his wallet.

"Please don't make me feel bad for robbing you of your livelihood," he replied. Yet another Wednesday ritual.

She didn't accept his money, so he left it on the counter, where nobody would touch it until Jim got back and put it in the till, tutting and shaking his head at his wife's nonsense.

"Just so you know," Rita said, "the girls and I are doing the catering for Miss Watson's funeral on Friday." Romero nodded. Rita and Jim had no children of their own. The 'girls' in this case were the five other women who worked shifts with Rita at the diner. "And we've started a collection jar, to contribute towards the school memorial." She tapped an empty jam jar sitting on the counter meaningfully.

Romero took out a ten dollar bill, adding it to the others in the glass container.

"See you next week, Rita," he said.

"Alex," she called, as he reached the door. He turned back, and she gave him one of her concerned looks. "I meant what I said, about you looking tired. Would it kill you, to take a day off?"

"It wouldn't kill me," he replied. "But somebody else? Yeah, maybe."

He left before she could accuse him of being paranoid or self-important. The truth was, he hadn't had a vacation in over twenty years, mostly because he was afraid of what would happen if he left the town to its own affairs for more than five minutes, but partially because he had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and nobody to do it with. His own parents were dead by more than a decade, and his wife and son were resting eternally in White Pine Bay's cemetery. Sure, there were people in town, people like Fitzpatrick and Hutchins, with whom he could spend a day fishing, but that was as far as their friendships could ever go.

Driving to the office, he let the chatter on the radio wash over his mind, listening to what was going on but not really paying attention to it. For the most part, it seemed like business as usual. There'd been a minor collision at the corner of Avalon Way and Park Avenue; nobody was hurt. An elderly resident had reported a lost dog; black lab with a red collar. And over on South Street there was a brawl in progress between two rival shop owners. Nothing the patrol officers couldn't handle between themselves.

He parked his car in the pool at the back of the station, and entered the Sheriff's Office via the back door. The hallways were quiet, and he met nobody until he stepped into the reception. Moore was at his desk, doing Deputy-related paperwork, and Regina, who'd managed to score the early shift this week, swivelled on her chair to smile at Romero as he entered the communal area.

"Good morning, sir," she said, smiling happily. She always smiled happily, even when she was upset. Regina was the best fake-smiler he had ever met.

"Morning Regina," he replied. "What's new?"

"You have two messages already, Sheriff."

"They're not from Norma Bates, are they?" he asked. But his wry humour went over Regina's head.

"No. The coroner called for you first thing, and then a Mrs. Hawthorn rang about ten minutes ago. I've taken her number. It's on your desk."

"Thank you, Regina."

On the way to his office he collected a hot cup of coffee from the machine in the staff room, and briefly wondered whether his increasingly excessive consumption of the stuff might be what was stopping him sleeping properly. Replacing the station's regular coffee with decaf wouldn't be too difficult; he'd get Regina to do it on the sly, and if anybody picked up on the difference in taste, he'd just tell them that they'd switched suppliers.

In the familiar confines of his office, he booted up his computer and pulled out the physical file he'd opened for the Watson case. So far, it wasn't a very thick file. Steve, the force's crime scene photographer, had captured and printed a few shots of the body, as well as the blood spatter on the walls, but as far as hard evidence went, there was very little.

Miss Watson's large, open eyes stared at him from one of the photographs, a look of serenity on her face, as if she had finally found long-sought peace. Even her curls lay perfectly beneath her, seemingly arranged to give the illusion of perfection. Reaching out, Romero ran one fingertip down the curve of her bare shoulder and across to her neck, where her throat had been slashed. He was missing something. He knew it in his gut. He was missing something important. But he didn't know what.

He put the photograph aside and dialled Fitzpatrick's office at the Scotswood morgue.

"Fitzpatrick," the coroner answered, after four rings.

"Tom, it's Alex Romero."

"Ah, Alex, glad you called. You just caught me. Have a lecture starting in five minutes. The pathology of necrotising fasciitis. Fascinating stuff."

Romero pushed his suddenly unappealing cup of coffee away and cleared his throat. "You've got news about the Watson murder?"

"More a lack of news, really. The autopsy turned up nothing out of the ordinary. Victim died from blood loss, as I first suspected, and there are no signs of intoxicants in her body. In a way, she was lucky."

"And what way might that be?"

"Death occurred in less than a minute. She didn't suffer."

"I doubt that fact will do little to console the family."

"Maybe not. But we have to look for the silver lining, no matter how dull it may appear." Fitzpatrick sighed, and Romero could picture him in his office, shaking his head over the madness of life. "We've analysed the blood we found on the tissue. I've emailed you the results. I hope you can find something to match it to, because that's all I can give you. I'm sorry it's not more."

"So am I," Romero replied. But being sorry didn't change anything. Beverley Watson was still dead, and her killer was still out there, free to strike again. "You've been doing this for a long time, Tom. What do you make of it all?"

"Strange business," Fitzpatrick said without hesitation. "What sort of a man kills a woman in her underwear, but doesn't assault her? I just can't see a motive for it, and I'm not sure I want to. I hate to say it Alex, but maybe this is something beyond the norm. Perhaps what we're dealing with is a truly disturbed individual, somebody who kills not for physical gratification but because he enjoys the feeling of power that it gives him, holding a person's life literally in his hands."

"I'm not ready to go there. Not yet," Romero said, pulling his mind away from the dark places Fitzpatrick led him. He firmly believes that there was always a solid motive—always—no matter how deeply buried.

"Well, I'd love to stay and ruminate on the intricacies of human nature with you, but I have a group of students eager to learn about flesh-eating bacteria. I have a wonderful slide show prepared. Charlie Wiggan is sending a couple of his boys to take Beverley Watson's body to the funeral home, so they can prep her for her big show on Friday. You'll be at the service, I take it?"

"Yes."

"We can talk more then. Good luck, Alex. And take care of yourself."

"You too, Tom."

The phone clicked and the line went dead. Romero hung up the receiver, and opened his email inbox. Sure enough, amongst the requests for vacation time and the complaints about staff leaving their dirty cups in the kitchen, was Fitzpatrick's email with the DNA information from the blood sample. He toyed briefly with the idea of running it through the database, but if he didn't get a match he'd then have to look at CODIS, and that could take hours. First, he had another phone call to make.

Regina had left Mrs. Hawthorn's cell number on a pink sticky note, and he dialled it as the photo of the pale, slender dead woman caught his eye once more. He'd heard it said that a picture painted a thousand words. If that was the case, then the picture of Miss Watson painted a silent film in which there were no subtitles.

"Hello?"

Carmella Hawthorn's voice was quiet, made crackly by static on the line.

"Mrs. Hawthorn, this is Sheriff Romero of White Pine Bay," he replied.

"Oh, Sheriff, thank you for calling back so quickly." There was genuine gratitude in her voice.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Hawthorn?"

"I've been thinking about what you said, about the men Bev used to talk to me about. For over a day I've been wracking my brains, trying to remember even a small part of our last conversation. This morning, I remembered something she said."

Romero reached for his notepad and a pen. "I'm listening."

"She told me that it was over with Rick. That he wasn't the man she thought he was, and that she never wanted to speak to him again."

_Rick._ He wrote the word in black ink, and felt the silent film portrayed by the photograph suddenly become a little less silent.

"That's important, isn't it?" the woman asked, sounding as hopeful as a child expecting their dream Christmas present to be under the tree on Christmas Day morning.

"Yes, it is," he replied. "But it would help if you could give me a surname."

"Bev never told me any surnames. I'm sorry, Sheriff, but that's all I could remember. I thought I should tell you right away."

"You've done well," he told her, feeling slight hope and bitter disappointment fighting inside his stomach. He didn't know anyone called Rick, but it could have been Miss Watson's pet name for 'Richard.' Unfortunately, Richard was a very popular name in the town. "If you think of anything else, even if it doesn't seem important, please let me know. At this point, any information can only help us catch the man who killed your sister."

"I will. And thank you, Sheriff."

He hung up, and tapped his pen on his pad, producing a steady rhythm. _Who are you?_ he thought, to the word he'd written on the pad. _And what do you know about the death of Beverley Watson?_

Once more he reached for his phone, and dialled Deputy Moore's desk.

"Sir?"

"Moore, you bagged Miss Watson's cell phone from the crime scene, didn't you?"

"Yessir. Me and Sondheim went through it with a fine-toothed comb."

"Were any of the texts stored within the memory sent to, or from, 'Rick' or 'Richard'?"

"No sir. She didn't even have a Rick or a Richard in her address book."

Romero closed his eyes as he thought about it logically. If Miss Watson hadn't wanted to speak to 'Rick' ever again, she'd probably deleted his number. But just because the number was deleted from the phone, didn't mean it was gone.

"Let's find out which phone company Miss Watson used and request an itinerary of her most recent incoming and outgoing calls. Both cell phone and land line. Let me know when it comes through."

"Will do," Moore replied.

Romero turned his attention back to his computer. He hated running DNA searches-it was the worst type of waiting game, and more than that, it took most of the police work out of policing. It used to be that a good investigator had to hone his eyes and his mind, and use his wits to solve a crime. Now, all a cop had to do was run a few prints or a DNA sample. Technology was replacing good old fashioned police work, making cops lazy and, in his humble opinion, stupid. He saw the benefits in advances in technology, he truly did, but you couldn't catch Alex Romero relying on high-tech gadgets to solve a crime. Much like people, technology could be deceptively unreliable.

o - o - o - o - o

A cheese and pickle sandwich lay half-eaten on the desk. It had been four hours since Romero's last cup of coffee, and he was beginning to feel jittery. It didn't help that his DNA searches, on both the Oregon DNA database and the national CODIS, had drawn blanks. Whoever the blood belonged to, and Fitzpatrick swore it wasn't Miss Watson, didn't have a record and had never had a DNA sample taken.

It did not bode well for his investigation.

"Sir?" Moore's head appeared in the partially open doorway, followed by an arm, which held a piece of paper. "Got those numbers you wanted."

Romero removed his hands from his temples—it wasn't doing anything for the tension in his head anyway—and looked up at his deputy.

"Anything interesting?"

"On or around the day that she died, Miss Watson made two outgoing calls to local numbers, and received two incoming calls from non-locals. I've already checked the outgoing numbers; one's to the White Pine Bay Motor Garage, and the other's to the florist on Main."

"Is there a 'Rick' working at either of those places?"

Moore shook his head, his line-worn face betraying nothing. "She called the garage to book her car in for a check. Said one of the tyres kept losing air. As for the florist… she ordered a wreath. Apparently she orders one around this time every year, for her mother's grave. Too bad she never got to collect it."

"What about the incoming calls?"

"Well, I thought I'd better leave those for you." Moore handed the paper over. "The first one's a Portland number. Second's a cell, but it's not a US number. The international dialling code's for Norway. I'm thinking it might just be a wrong number."

"Thanks," he said. "Start going through the other numbers, over the past week, and then go back further. I want every number on that list identified. Get Regina to help, if necessary."

Once his deputy had departed, Romero glanced down at the paper in his hands. Moore was probably right. The foreign cell was probably just a wrong number. But it didn't hurt to cover all bases. He dialled the Norwegian number. Six rings he counted. Seven. Eight. Then the line picked up, and a voicemail kicked in. It was a man's voice speaking in Norwegian. Something along the lines of 'leave a message and I'll call you back,' Romero suspected. He hung up without leaving a message, because any message he could have left would only have sounded crazy to somebody in Norway. He could try the number again another time.

The second number, the Portland one, looked more promising. He dialled it, and didn't have to wait long for a response.

"Good afternoon, Cedar Clinic, my name is Aimee, how may I help you today?"

"Hello Aimee, my name's Sheriff Alex Romero, and I'm calling from the White Pine Bay County Sheriff's department. I'm investigating the death of a woman called Beverley Watson, and I can see from her call history that she received a phone call from this number on the day of her death."

"I'm very sorry to hear that," Aimee said, in a chirpy tone. "How may I help with your investigation, Sheriff Romeo?"

"Romero," he corrected her. "And it would help if you could tell me who called Beverley Watson that day, and why."

"Let me just have a look on my system, Sheriff." There was a _tap tap tap_ of keystrokes. "Yes, I can confirm that Beverley Watson did receive a phone call from us last week."

"I already know that," he said, trying to put patience into his voice. God, how he wanted a coffee. "I'm looking at her phone history. What I need to know is who called her, and for what purpose."

"Oh, I'm sorry, but that would be a breach of doctor–patient confidentiality."

"I'm a law enforcement officer, and you are hindering a murder investigation," he accused.

"I'm sorry, but company policy dictates that we don't give out patient information over the phone, as we have no way of verifying your identity. If you like, I can make you an appointment with Doctor Kelsey, so that he can speak with you in person.

"Yes. Today please."

"I'm afraid that Doctor Kelsey's diary is full for the next four days. Would Tuesday of next week be okay?"

"No, it wouldn't. I'm driving to your clinic to see Doctor Kelsey today whether I have an appointment or not."

"Please hold for one moment."

Before Romero could object, Aimee's insipidly cheerful voice disappeared, replaced by Vivaldi's Four Seasons. 'One moment' turned out to be several minutes of what was probably supposed to be relaxing orchestral music. The violin solo merely grated on Romero's nerves, before it was blessedly replaced by Aimee.

"Hello, Sheriff Romero?" the woman said. "Doctor Kelsey will see you at four o'clock."

"How very kind of him. What's the address of your clinic?"

"9–14 Plantation Avenue, Portland. And please remember to bring relevant identification with you. We take our clients' privacy very seriously."

"Clearly."

He grabbed his coat from the stand beside the door and pocketed his notebook and pen. Out in the reception area, Regina and Moore were working diligently on identifying the rest of the numbers on the call list.

"I've got an appointment in Portland," he told them. "I'll probably be back late, so keep working on that list and we'll go over it tomorrow. I'll keep my cell on in case you need me once I'm out of radio range."

"You've found a clue, Sheriff?"

"I hope so, Moore," he replied. "I truly do."

* * *

_Author's Note: Hello, and thanks for reading the story to date. Initially, this was supposed to be a Romero-centric tale for the sole purpose of wrapping up some loose ends from the first season's human trafficking arc. This story will still do that, but now some other characters (both cannon and ones I've created myself) want to get involved, so I'll be introducing some additional, smaller storylines and I hope you enjoy them. I'll be updating this story according to my whims, rather than a schedule.  
_


	6. What goes around

My Town

_6. What goes around_

The reason for Cedar Clinic's stringent security measures became obvious to Romero as he turned his car onto Plantation Avenue. He could hear the protesters even before he saw the building, and he quickly realised what sort of a clinic it was. As he pulled up into an empty parking bay, angry men and women descended, bearing placards which claimed "God Hates Murderers!" and "Save Our Children!" and "Abolish Abortion!" He'd barely gone five paces towards the door when the crowd called out to him.

"I hope you've come to arrest each and every one of those murderers, Sheriff!" a man called out.

"It's about time the law looked into this place. God is with you, Sheriff!," a woman added, as others cheered her on.

Romero said nothing. He could see in their eyes the light of fanaticism. These people had a cause they believed in, and nothing would ever force them to stop their protests. In his opinion, too many people in the world spent too much time trying to tell others how to live. What would he find, he wondered, if he shone a light into some of their dark places? The self-righteous, he'd discovered long ago, were rarely as righteous as they claimed to be.

The inside of the reception area was quiet. The girl behind the desk looked up at him as he approached, and a smile appeared on her face. It could have given Regina's smiles a run for their money.

"Hello, how may I help you?" she asked.

He produced his badge, letting her eyes linger over it before putting away.

"Sheriff Romero. I have an appointment with Doctor Kelsey."

"Of course. If you'll follow me, I'll show you to Doctor Kelsey's office."

The corridors of the clinic smelled of disinfectant, and as he followed the girl, trying not to sneeze at the pine-fresh smell, he saw rooms bearing small plaques such as 'recovery room one' and 'examination room three.' He didn't bother asking questions about the facilities or its rooms. Judging by Aimee's response to him on the phone, he suspected he wouldn't get many answers.

He was let into an office bearing Kelsey's name plaque, and when he stepped inside he found a pleasantly decorated room, full of plants, and an aquarium in one corner. With its comfortable beige sofas and paintings of hazy landscapes, it was designed to make people feel comfortable and at ease. All it did for Romero was make him wonder what dirty stains the neutral colours and carefully placed decorations were hiding.

"Sheriff Romero, right?" Doctor Kelsey asked, standing up from behind his desk to offer his hand. He wasn't a tall man, nor as old as Romero had been expecting. Probably not a day over forty.

"That's right. Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Doctor."

"It's no problem." Kelsey gestured to the seat in front of the desk. "Can I get you something to drink?"

Romero desperately wanted to say 'coffee, black' but he suspected his sleeping habits wouldn't thank him for it. Instead he shook his head and took the seat as Kelsey continued.

"I hope the rabble outside didn't give you any trouble."

"On the contrary. They seemed to believe I'm here to investigate the clinic. Apparently, God's with me. Always good to know."

Kelsey shook his head. "I wish they'd just leave. They're an inconvenience and a nuisance. They think they're doing God's work by picketing my clinic."

"You disagree, I take it?"

"Indeed. In fact, I believe that I, along with the other doctors at the clinic, am the one doing God's work."

Romero felt one of his eyebrows rise up in surprise. "You do?"

"The women who come to see me are mostly determined to abort their babies, Sheriff. Before we carry out any such procedures, we ensure the women first undergo a session of therapy, and we try to talk them into alternatives, such as adoption. It doesn't always work, but sometimes it does. But when a woman's made up her mind, and nothing will dissuade her, she's going to find a way to have an abortion. Sometimes that might mean going to a dirty back-street clinic. Sometimes it means going online and googling the best way to do it. I've seen the results of self-attempted abortions—women left with severe internal scarring, sometimes rendered infertile—and I firmly believe that God never intended for women to have to resort to such methods."

"How many women do you treat each year?"

"Two or three per day, six days per week. It's not just women we treat, either."

"You perform abortions on something _other_ than women?"

Kelsey gave a sardonic smile, and shook his head. "No. What I mean is, we're an inclusive service. When most people think of abortions, they think of single women or teenage girls who've given into pressure and not used protection. In actual fact, almost seventy percent of our patients are women who are married or already have families. Often, it's the decision of a couple to have an abortion, either because they can't afford another mouth to feed, or due to health concerns. We arrange counselling for couples, too, both before and after the procedure."

"And you performed this procedure on Beverley Watson?"

The doctor eyed him up, his eyebrows lowered into a frown. "Can I see your ID?"

"I already showed your receptionist, but sure." He handed his ID over and let the doctor study it at his leisure. Finally, Kelsey seemed satisfied, and handed it back.

"Beverley Watson was one of the thirty-percent," he said. "A single woman who'd found herself in an unfortunate position. I… understand she's passed away?" Romero nodded. "May I ask how?"

"She was murdered."

"I'm sorry to hear that." But the doctor didn't look particularly sorry. In fact, there was relief in his blue eyes. As soon as Romero saw the expression, the doctor's helpfulness now made sense. A woman dying after receiving an abortion would not look good for the clinic. It might even result in a malpractice suit. Murder took that possibility away."

"I need to know everything you can tell me about Beverley Watson," he said.

"Miss Watson came to us four weeks ago, requesting an abortion. She underwent the mandatory counselling session, but couldn't be persuaded to change her mind. As I understand it, she didn't want anybody to know about her condition, and carrying to term would have made her indiscretion obvious. I performed the procedure myself on Saturday November 16th. She stayed for observation overnight, and was discharged the following day. There were no complications, and nothing to suggest that Miss Watson regretted her decision."

"Why did you call her last Friday?"

"Part of our service," Kelsey said. "Aftercare. We check up on all of our clients one month after the procedure has been performed, to ensure they are in good health and, if requested, arrange extra counselling sessions. When I spoke to Miss Watson, she seemed happy enough with the service we had provided. She said that she didn't need additional counselling sessions, and that she was looking forward to moving on with her life."

"Did she ever mention a name to you? The father, I mean."

"No. And it's not our policy to ask." Kelsey sighed. "You have to understand, Sheriff, that not all of the women who come to us are comfortable with their partners knowing about this. I don't know whether Miss Watson's condition was the result of a one-night stand, or whether she was in a stable relationship, and I was happy enough not to know. She was clearly of sound mind, and confident that she was making the right choice. She was scared, of course—most women are, if they've never done this before. But she never mentioned names. I'm sorry. I can tell that's not what you wanted to hear. I hope you haven't wasted a journey here."

"Just the opposite. It's been… illuminating," he assured the doctor. Indeed, the more he was learning of Miss Watson, the more he was coming to understand just how little he knew about her. How little _anybody_ knew about her.

o - o - o - o - o

By the time Romero returned to White Pine Bay, the town was cloaked in velvet darkness, it streets illuminated purely by the regularly placed lampposts. He rolled his car into the driveway of his house, and reached over to the passenger seat for the bag of groceries he'd bought in Portland.

Entering his house, he groped for the light-switch and quickly found it. From her bed beside the sofa, Clementine raised her head, watching him with a canine stare that seemed more wolf than dog. Romero would be the first to admit that he wasn't a dog-person, but Shelby's death had left him with more than one inconvenience. He'd once heard it said that there were no bad dogs, only bad owners, and he believed it. Animals were sensitive to their owners' moods. Even if it had been safe to rehome a trained police dog with a civilian, he would not have subjected anybody else to Zack Shelby's beloved canine companion. There was no telling what living in Zack Shelby's slave-house had done to the dog.

"C'mon, Clem," he said, and the shepherd-cross obediently rose and followed him into the kitchen. He opened the back door for her, so she could make use of the yard, and watched through the window as she snuffled around the plants.

The dog hated him. He knew it in his gut. She watched him as if waiting for him to turn his back, so that she could rip out his throat in revenge for her dead master. More than once, he'd considered taking her into the woods and shooting her, just so he wouldn't have to see that look of accusation in her eyes. He'd even gone so far as to actually walk her up to the woods, tether her to a tree, and point his police-issue handgun at her.

Then he'd realised that shooting her would be too easy. Too convenient. So he'd taken her back home, and he kept her around as a constant reminder of his own failures. Each time he saw her, it reminded him of how Zack Shelby had pulled the wool over his eyes. Every bark, every pant, was an echo of her master's voice, which spoke insipid lies. That Keith Summers could be involved in trafficking for the sex trade, he could believe. But never before had someone so thoroughly deceived him as Zack Shelby. Shelby, the golden-boy of the police force. The wholesome, corn-bred boy-next-door deputy everybody felt safe around. Romero had worked with the man for over ten years, and never seen him for what he was. A very painful lesson in trust, that had been.

Outside, Clementine barked, demanding to be let back in, and he opened the door obligingly for her. She trotted in, staring at him with her deep brown eyes, hating him but needing him as much as he hated but needed her. He never stroked her. She never brushed up against his legs, or greeted him happily when he returned home. She needed him to feed her, because nobody else would. He needed her to remind him that he couldn't ever trust anybody.

But the hatred was still there, and it went both ways.

"Look, Clem," he said, pulling out a tin of food from his brown grocery bag. "I got you some tripe to go with your kibble. You're going to like this, but if you shit all over my carpet tomorrow, I swear I'm going to take you out back and empty a barrel into your head. Don't think that I won't."

She watched him.

He stuck the kettle on to heat whilst he dished out her food and watched her wolf it down. When the kettle began to whistle, he took it off the stove and reached into his grocery bag once more. The box he brought out said _Chamomile & Vanilla_ on it. Normally, he wouldn't be caught dead drinking herbal tea, but the woman in the stupid herbal store he'd spotted in Portland had sworn that it would help him to relax and sleep. So he put one of the bags into a cup, poured hot water over it, and added milk. Then he realised you weren't supposed to add milk, threw it all away, and started again. By the time he'd finally got it right, Clementine had retreated to her bed to gnaw on a lamb shank bone he'd brought her from the butchers, and his home smelled like a sweet factory thanks to the vanilla in the teabags.

Kicking off his shoes, he took his cup of potpourri smelling tea to the sofa and switched on the tube, flicking over to the news. There was little of note. There was still trouble in the middle-east, Obama was still allegedly ruining the country, and a woman in Maine claimed to have seen Jesus in a pawn shop. Nothing that affected him, or White Pine Bay, and very little that could actually be classed as news. Today, Obama was destroying the world. Tomorrow, another president would be doing it. Today, Jesus frequented the pawn shops. Tomorrow, it would be Elvis. As for war in the East… the Red Horseman had been riding since the beginning of time. Romero had seen him, once, in White Pine Bay, and had driven him out. Now, he didn't care where War rode, as long as it wasn't here.

He sipped his tea, if you could even call it that, as he didn't watch the non-news, accompanied the the sound of Clementine gnawing on the lamb bone. _If dogs are supposed to be man's best friend,_ he thought, _I'd hate to see what they'd be like as our worst enemies._

Cats, he felt, were the way forward. He'd had a cat, as a child. Tiger, the thing was a called, a ginger tabby only slightly smaller than a bobcat, and probably fathered by one. Tiger had been a monstrous beast, a terror who hunted everything from small birds to large coyotes, but at least you knew where you stood with him. For about an hour a day, he let you stroke him, hold him and play string-ball with him. For an hour a day, he was a typical house cat. Then the predator took over, and he disappeared into the woods to terrorise anything stupid enough to get in his way. And you knew that as long as he was being Tiger the house cat, during that one hour, you were safe. You didn't expect anything more, and he didn't give anything more. Cats didn't need letting in or out, they didn't need you to feed them twice a day and clean up their shit after them. They took care of themselves, and let you pretend that you had a part in that.

Dogs weren't like that. You couldn't keep them outside all the time, but you couldn't keep them inside all the time either. You had to pay attention to them or they destroyed your house. You had to walk them and bathe them and get them chipped, because dog owners had to be responsible. And though Alex Romero considered himself one of the most responsible people around, he didn't like being forced to serve an animal every day. Not for the first time, he wished Shelby had owned a cat.

When he felt his eyelids beginning to droop, he put down his cup of potpourri and made his way up the stairs. Stripping down to his underwear, he dumped his uniform in the laundry basked and crawled into bed. The cool sheets greeted him, but they soon warmed to his body. This was one of the things he missed most, about his wife. The way they would curl up in bed together, sharing body head, letting the blankets warm to their skin as they held each other in the moments before sleep took them.

Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could feel her still, in the moments before sleep. He could feel the warmth of her body next to his, feel the warmth of her breath on his neck as she snuggled close to him, her arms insinuating across his body. And sometimes, he even thought he could smell the spicy-sweet scent of her perfume clinging to the bedsheets. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, and let the sandman take him…

_Brrrrrring brrrrrring. Brrrrrring brrrrrrring._

Opening one eye, Romero glanced at his alarm clock. _23:12._ Not even midnight, and his sleep had already been disturbed. Reaching out, he picked up the receiver and brought it to his ear.

"Romero."

"We need you at the dock." Gil's voice was quiet but insistent, offering no pleasantries. Immediately, Romero was awake.

"What's happened?"

A moment of silence. Then, "We shot someone."

An image flashed through Romero's mind, of a shock of red hair and a pale face, cold grey eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. "Who?" he demanded.

"Don't know. A stranger. He's got no ID, but he was armed."

"Why are you bothering me with this?"

"He's still alive." Ah. That explained why Gil hadn't just disposed of the body. "I want to know what he's doing sneaking around my property."

Romero sighed. It would have been much easier if Gil's people had just killed the man. Unfortunately, most of them were very good shots.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," he said.

The line went dead, and Romero hauled himself out of bed. This time, he didn't reach for his uniform. Tonight, he was wasn't the Sheriff. He was something more than that. Something less than it. Tonight, he had to be the man he'd never wanted to be.

o - o - o - o - o

The cloudless sky was lit by the silver light of the half-moon, and the stars which shone with an almost impossible brightness. It occurred to Romero, as he pulled up outside Gil's dry-dock, that the celestial bodies were the only true witnesses to everything that occurred. During the day, the sun saw all that happened in the light of its golden rays. By night, the moon and her tiny silver companions bore witness to events that most people never saw.

Ask humans what had happened, however, and you got a thousand different stories, each one an ephemeral memory that could be influenced by external sources. The advent of CCTV was helping to remove such ambiguity, but the inhabitants of White Pine Bay had taken an almost Luddite stance as far as CCTV was concerned. Sure, maybe cameras could help make their lives safer. But at what cost? They didn't want their lives to be recorded for later viewing, not even if it was in their own best interests. In a small town where everybody knew each other, they considered such intrusions an unnecessary evil.

Gil was waiting as Romero pulled up. The large warehouse where he housed boats under repair or construction was a front for Gil's main business, as an intermediary for those growing and those buying large quantities of weed. Hired by the families who owned the land on which the crop grew, Gil had been doing this job for almost as long as Romero had been doing his.

"Alex," Gil said, with a slight, respectful nod of his head.

"Gil," Romero returned. "Where's the victim?"

"I resent that term," Gil told him, nodding to a nearby sign. _Keep Out. Private Property. No Trespassers. _"I think of him more as a perpetrator. After all, you don't ignore a dozen warning signs without good cause. I think this guy was looking for something."

"What?"

Gil shrugged. "Don't know. He's unconscious. But Fabian's had a look at him. Says he'll probably live."

"Show me."

He followed as Gil led the way into the dock. The sweet smell of cannabis filled the air, and Romero wrinkled his nose. He'd never cared for the stuff. Didn't trust it. Anything which altered your frame of mind was to be avoided. People who smoked it claimed it helped them to relax. Romero didn't want to relax. He just wanted to sleep, and the hippie shop lady said chamomile would do that. Who needed weed?

A body was lying beside the _Lucky Lady,_ the boat most recently towed in for re-keeling. Four or five of Gil's people were lurking, some openly, some in the shadows, but they stepped back as Romero approached. They knew him by sight, and they knew better than to ask questions in his presence.

Kneeling down, he examined the man who'd been covered by a blanket. The guy looked around thirty, thirty-five, and had a facial shadow of stubble over his jaw and chin. He'd been shot in the shoulder, but it appeared to be a clean wound. Like Gil said, the man would probably live. That in itself would cause complications, because the people who grew the pot, and those who bought it for distribution, didn't take kindly to trespassers. Gil was well within his right to shoot anybody who ignored the warning signs around the premises.

"Who shot him?" he asked.

"Doesn't matter," Gil said, and Romero let the matter lie. Gil was right. It didn't matter who had shot the man. Whoever it was clearly knew what they were doing. They'd avoided a fatal shot. "I want to know what this son of a bitch was doing on my property. We can keep him here, but we don't have the facility to treat gunshot wounds. I thought you should know about it."

Romero nodded. "Alright. Have one of your men drop him off outside the hospital. I'll get Moore to wait there and take him in. I'll post an officer outside his room until he regains consciousness. Then I'll question him."

Gil had only to glance at two of his men, and they were moving forward, shouldering their guns to pick up the injured man. Like well-trained dogs, they were. Perhaps Gil would like to take on Clementine…

"I appreciate you coming out here," Gil said, as Romero cast his last thought aside. Gil probably wouldn't feed her properly. Hungry dogs made more vicious guards. "Sorry to have to drag you out of bed."

"Next time, tell your men to aim a little more to the left."

"Don't worry," Gil said. His face took on something of a scowl. "I'll be having words with them about this."

"This isn't a good time to be a stranger in White Pine Bay," Romero told him. "The sooner your trimmers are gone, the better off everyone will be."

"New Year," replied Gil. "They're contracted until the New Year, and then they'll be gone."

"I'll hold you to that."

He left the warehouse by the same route he'd come in, watched by Gil's people, their guns lowered. The stranger really was lucky to be alive, and if he gave the right answers, he'd continue to live. For now, Romero had bigger problems than someone sniffing around Gil's place. He still had a killer to catch.


	7. Twleve Days

My Town

_7. Twelve Days_

"Dylan! Get down here!"

Norma's voice trilled up the stairs, and Dylan jumped in fright, guiltily trying to stuff the magazine he'd been reading under his pillow. When he realised what he was doing, he stopped himself, and brought the magazine back out. He was, he told himself, a grown man. If he wanted to read a magazine in which beautiful women, proud of their bodies, posed topless for a series of tasteful images, then he could do exactly that. It wasn't any of his mom's business.

"Dylan!"

"I'm busy!" he called back.

"Well we're having a family meeting, and as long as you're living under this roof, you're a part of this family. So either get your ass down here pronto, or get your stuff and get out."

He sighed, closed the mag, and stashed it under his mattress. Technically, he had enough money saved now to move out and get a place of his own. With what he'd earned from Gil, on top of the five grand Ethan had given him, he could put down a deposit on a nice place… his arm was more than healed enough now, Shelby's glancing bullet graze barely even causing a twinge.

But every time he thought about moving out, a tiny voice inside his head said _'tomorrow.'_ And each time 'tomorrow' came around, something else caused him to stay. First it had been Norma getting arrested for Keith's murder. Then it had been Norman's revelation about the girl in Shelby's basement. After that had been Shelby's attack on the family, followed by the arrival, and then terminal departure, of Jake Abernathy.

Now, his family was safe. Now, there was nothing stopping him. Nothing except that tiny voice in his head, which told him, _'tomorrow.'_ That, and the memory of Romero watching Norman with a look of speculation in those cold, almost-black eyes of his. That was the moment Dylan had realised the true name of the town. It wasn't White Pine Bay. It was Shit Creek, and he was somehow up it without a paddle.

Norma's words sparked his curiosity, so he left his room and descended the stairs. He found Norman sitting on the sofa, and Norma standing in front of the fireplace, arms folded across her chest, a determined look on her face. _Uh-oh_, he thought, as he joined his brother on the couch. Whatever Norma was planning, this couldn't be good.

"Since when do we have family meetings?" he asked.

"Since now," Norma replied, whilst Norman looked on bemused. "Look, I've been thinking. This hasn't been a great year for us. Things started out pretty bad, with our money problems, and then Sam's death, and moving here, and the whole Asian sex slave trafficking thing… but just because the year started bad doesn't mean it has to end bad, right?"

Dylan looked to Norman, saw the same concerned confusion in his brother's eyes. Norma watched, expectation written all over her face.

"Right," Norman agreed, before Dylan could ask what crazy new plan she was concocting.

"So," Norma continued, "Dylan, you're going to take your brother into town and get us the biggest tree you can find. And lots of trimmings, too. We're going to decorate the entire house, and the motel office, and on Christmas Eve I'm going to cook us a nice meal, and we're going to have a proper family Christmas."

This time, Dylan spoke up first. "Um… we are?"

"Yes, we are. And there will be presents, too." When her suggestion was met with less enthusiasm than she was probably expecting, her voice took on a wheedling tone. "C'mon you guys. Do you even remember how we spent Thanksgiving?"

Dylan shook his head. Thanksgiving had never been a big thing on his list. Then again, neither had Christmas, or Birthdays. Those things only really applied to you if your name was Norman.

"Dylan, you were out somewhere, probably sitting in the middle of a pot field," his mom continued, "and Norman you spent almost the whole night sulking about something in your bedroom. Well, I'm fed up of it. We are going to have one single day of being a normal family. We deserve it, after all the shit we've been through. So start getting in the mood for Christmas, because we're going to have fun if it's the last thing we do. Oh, and Norman, if you want to invite Emma and Mr. Decody, that's fine."

Norman shifted in his seat, his eyes darting everywhere around the room before settling back on his mother. Dylan could almost _feel_ the waves of discomfort rolling off him.

"Oh, um, that's okay Mom," he said. "I'd prefer our first Christmas here to be just the three of us. I'm sure Mr. Decody's already made plans for Emma."

"Well, it wouldn't hurt to check, would it?"

"I guess not."

"Good." Norma offered both of her sons a bright smile. "Now, get going before all the best trees go!"

Dylan blinked. "What, you want us to go now?"

"Uh, yeah? There's only twelve days left until Christmas, genius, and we've got a lot to do."

"Why don't I just cut you a tree the next time I'm out in—"

Norma held up one finger. "Don't even think about finishing that sentence, Dylan. First of all, I don't want a tree from anywhere near those pot fields. It'll probably smell bad. And second, I want a nice tree. One that's been grown just for this purpose. And has some of that fake snow on the top of it."

"Why don't you come and pick the tree out yourself?" he suggested. "Because if I come back with the wrong tree, and you flip out over it…"

"Flip out," she said, making air-quotes around the words. "I'm not going to 'flip out,' Dylan, it's just a tree. I think I can trust you to pick out a nice tree for our first ever real family Christmas. Right?"

He sighed. "Right. Grab your coat, Norman. Christmas awaits us."

"Yeah, okay," Norman agreed.

"And don't forget the trimmings!" Norma called after them.

Dylan shrugged on his favourite leather jacket—admittedly, his _only_ leather jacket, but it was still his favourite—and pulled his car keys from his pocket. Fortunately, they were the keys for the shiny black pickup, which also happened to be his favourite car. Not that the Humvee Gil had lent him was a _bad_ car… it had been an adequate substitute whilst the pickup was having two new wheels fitted and its suspension softened to give a smoother ride up the mountain roads. He was glad to have it back.

A chill in the winter air nipped at his skin when he stepped outside, but it wasn't as cold here as some of the places he'd been. It was downright balmy, compared to winters in South Dakota. Here, the warm sea currents kept away the worst of the cold weather, and he suspected it rarely snowed this close to the coast.

"Mom really seems to be getting into the festive spirit," Norman remarked as he caught up with his elder brother.

"Yeah, but when something goes wrong—either the food burns, or the tree's the wrong shape, or the tinsel's not the right colour—we'll be the ones to get it in the neck," he said. Then he winced at his own words. The first friend he'd made in the town, Ethan, had been shot in the neck by some druggie scum-bag. It was the first time Dylan had seen somebody shot, and the first time he'd had to watch someone die. Despite the job that he did, Ethan was a good guy. He hadn't deserved to go like that, and Dylan had hated how powerless it made him feel, to watch his friend bleed to death.

"I really think this could be like a new start for us," Norman replied. Dylan shook his head. Norman was a blind optimist at times. He just couldn't see Norma's flaws, how she lived for drama, how she caused most of her own problems then played the part of damsel in distress… and played it badly. Still, she _was_ his mother, and she was right when she said they'd all been through a lot of shit recently. He was willing to try and make an effort… just for one day.

The sound of tyres on stone chippings heralded the arrival of a car. As Emma Decody's bright orange Beetle came to a halt, Dylan noticed his brother stop walking, his eyes fixed on the garishly coloured vehicle. Emma climbed out, carrying her oxygen tank behind her. She looked paler than usual, and Dylan wondered if she'd been ill recently. But she barely even acknowledged him, glancing at him with the briefest of smiles before turning her gaze back to Norman.

"Hey. Can we talk?" she said.

"My… uh… mom wants Dylan and I to drive to town to pick up some stuff for Christmas," Norman said, edging backwards ever so slightly.

Dylan fought back a grin. It was good to see his little brother acting like a normal teenage guy for once, though he had no idea what Emma saw in him. Norman was tall and gangly, with a plain yet serene face, and eerie dark eyes. He wouldn't be winning any modelling contracts any time soon.

"It's okay, man," he told his brother. "I can get the tree myself, it's no big. You guys talk." He caught Emma's eye and nodded to the house. "Just beware of the Christmas Nazi."

"Right," Emma said. "Can we talk in the office, Norman?"

"Sure. Of course. That's fine," Norman said, his face warring between stricken panic and maniacal grin. Dylan watched the pair walk side by side until they entered the office, then he turned back to his car.

"Dylan!"

He heard his voice called from across the car park, and saw the English woman, Grace, jogging towards him. With her pale skin, coppery red hair and intelligent grey eyes which showed a hint of blue in the sunlight, she was pretty enough, if a little older than his usual taste. She'd managed to find a pair of jeans from somewhere, and was wearing a dark blue polo-neck sweater beneath a black parka which cinched in at the waste, showing that somewhere beneath the layers she actually possessed a pleasant figure.

"Are you going into town?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Mind if I catch a ride with you?"

"Of course not." Then, he caught sight of the satchel she often carried on her excursions into White Pine Bay. "Going to the library again?"

"Where else?" she said, with a conspiratorial smile.

He helped her climb into the pickup, then took the driver's seat and started the engine. "How long are you planning on staying here?" he asked, as he set the car onto the road to town.

"Is there some immediate need for me to leave?" she countered.

"Oh, no, nothing of the sort," he assured her, mentally booting himself for making it sound that way. "I was just making small talk. You know, I wondered how long you'd be in White Pine Bay for, and when you'd be going back to England."

"Ahh."

He waited for a moment, and when she didn't answer, he prompted her again. "Well?"

"I will be in White Pine Bay for as long as I need to be. And I will return home when my work is done. Or when my grant money runs out. It really depends on which happens first."

"You're not going home for the holidays?"

"No."

"Oh." He glanced at her, and wondered why she was so cagey. She'd been like this the other times he'd spoken with her, either answering his questions with one-word responses, or posing questions of her own. If he could just get her to open up… "Do you have any family back home?" he tried.

"Some."

"Won't they miss you, over Christmas?"

"No."

"I see."

"I'm glad you do."

There was silence as they passed a mile marker, and when he glanced at her again he found her watching him, her grey eyes weighing him up on some unseen scale. It was damn weird, and made a chill run up his spine.

"What?" he demanded, suddenly conscious that his gun was no longer tucked down the back of his pants. It was back home, in one of his drawers, and now he felt naked without it. He silently berated himself for leaving it behind.

"You seem like a very resourceful young man."

"Young man? You're like what, eight years older than me?"

She gave him an eerie smile. "Quite. Anyway, my point is, I'm in need of something. Something that a resourceful young man may be able to help me procure."

"Oh? And what is it you're in need of?" Despite his suspicion, his curiosity was piqued once more.

"First, understand that I'm not asking you for a favour, just a supply link. I can pay you in full, up front."

"Pay me for what?"

"A bottle of twenty-five year old Laphroaig," she replied, saying the last word with a stronger than usual accent.

It took him a moment to figure out what she was asking for, and when he did, he almost laughed at the inanity of it. "You want me to get you a bottle of Scotch?"

"No, you uncultured barbarian," she replied, "I want you to get me a bottle of the finest single malt whisky ever distilled. _'Scotch,' _he says," she snorted in disgust.

"You drink whiskey?"

"Well I didn't want a bottle just to _look_ at it."

"But why Laphroaig? What's wrong with Jack?"

"Oh, nothing," she said, offering a sweet smile. "It's my solvent of choice for whenever I need to strip paint from a wall. For actual consumption, though, I prefer something that tastes a little less vitriolic."

"Fair enough." He could take the slur on his country's finest alcoholic export. The woman was obviously just a whiskey-snob. "So why all the secrecy? The way you were talking, I thought you were going to ask me to score you a few lines of coke or something. I can't do that, by the way."

"Ahh, well, you see, Laphroaig, as I've discovered, is very rare over here. In England, an eighteen year old bottle costs about a hundred dollars, or perhaps a little more. I don't know the current exchange rate. And I'd like a bottle of twenty-five, which is even rarer, and even more expensive."

"Why not settle for the eighteen?"

"I will, if I have to." She rolled her eyes. "Hell, I'd settle for a bottle of five-year Glenfiddich, after months of seeing little other than bourbon and hearing all single malts referred to as 'scotch.' I'm sorry if I made my request sound rather lurid. The truth is, I miss home, and Laphroaig reminds me of home."

"Did you grow up in a whiskey distillery?"

"Something like that," she agreed. "And I'd like to take advantage of my grant money whilst I still have it. Don't worry if you can't get Laphroaig, like I said, I'd settle for a cheaper alternative. As long as it isn't any form of bourbon."

"I'll see what I can do," he said, promising nothing. He liked a challenge, and it would be interesting to see just how hard it could be to get his hands on a rare bottle of scotch.

"Thank you, Dylan. And like I said, I'll pay in advance. Just let me know if you can get it."

"I will," he assured her. But that was for later. Right now, he had to find the perfect Christmas tree, otherwise Norma might just kill him with the gun he'd taught her to use.

"It's lovely here," she said. Glancing at her, he saw her staring out of the window and across the bay, where fishing ships were bringing in their hauls.

"Reminds you of home?" he guessed.

"The weather, certainly. But the landscape's a little more rugged. A little wilder."

"What's England like?" He wouldn't have minded seeing it, one day. Travelling Europe was on his bucket list.

She smiled. "Gently rolling chalk hills in the south meet craggy, weather-worn mountains in the north. Seen from the air, the farmlands are like a patchwork quilt of pasturelands and crop fields, separated by a maze of centuries-old dry stone walls. And the cities look so tiny when you're above them, as if they're trying desperately to fill the land around them, stretching out their roads to tenuously touch each other."

"Sounds very… poetic."

"It is."

After a few minutes of driving in silence, White Pine Bay appeared on the road ahead. The town sprawled along the coast, white buildings seemingly dropped at random the further away from the town you went. As far as small towns were concerned, it wasn't a bad one. The roads were wide and rarely suffered gridlock, a few memorials to the town's history were scattered around, in the form of a yardarm, a ship's wheel and a giant bronze-cast logging saw, and overall it was the type of place where people could walk down the streets at night and not have to worry about looking over their shoulders.

The peace and tranquillity was a façade, a thin veneer draped over the dark shadows which roamed the streets and dwelt in the homes of the townsfolk. It was little more than a cheap illusion, designed to trick visitors and newcomers into believing that all was well. Miraculously, the illusion worked, and even Dylan had been taken in by it. He hadn't figured out, yet, how it all worked, why everything didn't fall apart, and who exactly was controlling the smoke and mirrors, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know either. Knowledge could be a dangerous thing, and in White Pine Bay, knowing something you weren't supposed to could potentially be lethal.

He stopped at a red light and glanced out of the side window. When he saw who was standing barely a dozen feet away, clustered amongst a group of her friends, his breath caught in his throat. Bradley Martin was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Not only was she beautiful, she was perfect. She was neither too tall nor too short, was slender without being skeletal-thin, and her face was a work of art. Large expressive eyes sat in a face of flawless skin, above a nose which was just the right size for her face. Her mouth was small but her lips proportionately plump, and when she smiled her whole face was lit up by an inner radiance. Long, perfectly straight ash-blonde hair cascaded down her back in a river of softness, and she always smelt of flowers.

She seemed to sense that she was being watched, and as Dylan looked at her, she turned, her expressive eyes finding his and holding his stare for a long moment. Her lips tugged up at the corners into a smile that was secretive, and coy, and self-conscious all at the same time. She lifted her hand, her slender fingers straightening as she gave him a small wave, something created for his eyes alone.

"Is that your girlfriend?" Grace asked, intruding on the moment.

"No," Dylan replied. He felt his breath release from his throat. "No, she's one of Norman's friends from school."

"She likes you."

"Nah," he said, shaking his head, feeling like he was twelve years old and explaining himself to a teacher after being caught doing something particularly naughty. He didn't like the knowing look in Grace's eyes. "She's just grateful because I did her a favour recently."

"Mm-hmm." The English woman arched an eyebrow in amusement. "And you are aware, yes, that the traffic light changed to green whilst you were quite clearly not having eye-sex with Norman's friend from school who's just grateful because you did her a favour?"

"Shit," he said, and put his foot down on the gas before the cars behind could start honking. "Wait a minute… eye-sex? What the hell is that? Actually, I'm not sure I want to know."

Grace rolled her eyes. "It's the moment in which you catch someone's eye across a distance, and you convey how you feel about them with nothing but your gaze. And there's a spark that you feel deep inside, which tells you that the person you're looking at is having _exactly_ the same thoughts as you. The rest of the world ceases to exist, and that moment stretches out to become your own private eternity, in which thought and action and intention are one. That's eye-sex. Maybe you know it as something else."

"You're nuts," he said, with a shake of his head.

"It has been said. But then again, I wasn't the one not noticing the traffic lights, was I?"

Thankfully, the library loomed into view as Dylan turned the next corner, and he wasted no time in pulling into a bay so he could be rid of his passenger.

"Thank you very much for the ride, Dylan," she said. "May I offer you a piece of advice?"

"Sure," he replied, already dreading what new embarrassing things she was going to say.

"Beware of pretty girls who know how pretty they are, because will use their looks to ensnare your mind and before you know it you'll be wrapped around someone's little finger." She crooked her pinky for maximum effect. "Trust me when I say, you're better off alone."

"Thank you _so_ much for channelling my mother right there." It seemed his fate to be surrounded by crazy women. "Anyway, I'm going to be in town for a couple of hours, so if you want a ride back to the motel, meet me here at five, okay?"

"Appreciate it," she nodded. "See you later."

He watched as she slid from the high vehicle's seat and landed gracefully on the sidewalk. She gave him a tight smile as she slammed the door closed, then shouldered her satchel and disappeared into the library. Shaking his head, he pulled out of the car park and began looking for somewhere, anywhere, that sold Christmas trees.

_Women,_ he thought. _I just don't understand them._

o - o - o - o - o

Norman stepped into the office, followed by Emma and her O2 tank, and when he heard her pull the door closed he tried not to panic, to look around for another exit route. He hadn't spoken to her since that night at the dance, when she'd gotten angry with him for looking at Bradley so much. Since she ran away in tears from the first school dance she'd ever been to.

He'd tried to talk to her. When he'd seen her in the corridors, she'd blanked him. He'd stood next to her at her locker, offering apologies for his behaviour, but she'd ignored him. In class, when they'd formed groups to partake in debates on politics, she hadn't responded to any of his rebuttals. He'd felt sick all week over the thought that he'd lost his first, best, and only friend in White Pine Bay. And now that she was here, he wasn't ready to talk. He hadn't prepared for it. Reality was spiralling out of control around him.

"So," he said, as she turned her brown eyes towards him. She really did have beautiful eyes. He hadn't realised until now just how much emotion they could convey. "Here we are. In the office. Talking."

"First of all," she said, "I want to apologise for what I said at the dance. It was wrong of me. I can't make you feel a certain way about me, and even if I could, I wouldn't want to force you into feeling something that you can't feel on your own. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah, I guess," he agreed, because she'd started talking really quickly, and seeing _her_ nervous did nothing for _his_ nerves.

"Good." She took a deep breath. "Because I've been doing a lot of thinking over this past week. And I've realised that if you feel for Bradley even half of what I feel for you, then the way you are around her… it's pretty much out of your control. You can't help wanting to look at her, wanting to talk to her and be near her, just as I can't help wanting to look at you, wanting to talk and be near to you. So I understand how you're feeling, and I know how irrational those feelings are, and how they make you do and say crazy things. "I'm also really sorry for ignoring you this past week. But I've just needed time, and space to figure things out inside my own head. Y'know?"

"Yeah."

"I told you before that I don't want to lose you as my friend, Norman Bates, and that sentiment still stands. If you can accept me being a bit crazy from time to time, I'd still like to be your friend. You know, if you'd still like to be mine."

"I would," he told her, putting as much conviction into his words as he could possibly manage. Sometimes, he felt like Emma was the only one who truly understood him.

"I'm so glad to hear it." Tears began to form in her brown eyes, and she opened her arms out. "Friends?"

"Friends," he agreed, stepping into her embrace and wrapping his arms around her for a tight hug. At that moment, he noticed the sun begin to stream in through the window, filling the office with warm yellow light. Suddenly, all of his fears and concerns, about school, about Miss Watson, about Bradley and Dylan, seemed… less. As if Emma was lending him her strength.

She pulled away from him and took a deep breath, her lower lip quivering ever so slightly.

"There's something I have to tell you," she said.

"What is it?"

"I have to leave."

And just like that, the sun disappeared behind the clouds, the room grew cold and all of his fears and concerns loomed over him once more, threatening to bring his whole world crashing down.

"Wh—what do you mean?"

"You know I'm on a transplant list, right?" He nodded, unable to bring himself to speak. "Well, last night, we got a call. They've found a compatible donor. A woman who fell off a horse, and is being kept alive by machines. Her family signed the consent forms yesterday, and they're prepping her for surgery. My dad and I have to leave for Sacramento tonight."

A whirlwind of thoughts danced through his mind. Emma was leaving. But she was getting a lung transplant. She was having a very serious operation. But afterwards she'd be able to breathe normally. His best and only friend was going away. But she wouldn't be gone forever. She _couldn't_ leave forever. It wasn't allowed. It wasn't right.

"I'll be gone for three months," she said, perhaps sensing his rising panic. "After the transplant, I have to spend a month in hospital, so I can be closely monitored for rejection and put on a ventilator. Then I'll need regular weekly checkups for the next month, so that the doctors can adjust my medication if necessary. My dad's renting us a place down there for an extra month, because he doesn't want to take any chances."

He looked into her eyes, saw the hope and the fear and the regret within them. "But afterwards, you'll be healthy. Right?"

"Healthier," she nodded. "I'll need to take low doses of immunosuprressants for the rest of my life, to ensure my body doesn't reject the lungs. I'll need a checkup at the transplant clinic once every six weeks. The drugs I'll need to take mean that my immune system will be lowered, and I'll be more at risk from infections and colds. And there may be… side effects. A lot of people develop diabetes, and high blood pressure, and eventually my kidneys will probably fail." She gave him a brave smile and tapped her oxygen tank with her foot. "But I won't need this anymore. I'll be able to breathe properly. I'll look like normal people."

"You've only ever looked like normal people to me," he assured her.

"Which just goes to show how much of a freak you are," she said, and he smiled with her at her playful insult.

"You really have to go so soon?"

"Yeah. Every moment sorta counts. My dad's at home, running around, trying not to panic as he packs everything he thinks we'll need. He wanted to leave this morning, but I convinced him that we needed time to do things like say goodbye to people, and make sure the shop will be okay, and… you know… tell Principal Hutchins that I'm going to be out of school for a while. He was really cool about it. He said that once I'm out of the hospital, he'll get Mrs. Kavanaugh to email me all the work I've missed, so I don't have to suffer lying around watching daytime TV. And I can start planning out my assignments too, so that I can submit them once I get home, and I won't have to resit the whole year."

"That's good. Good. It means we'll be in the same classes again next year." He felt his hands start to shake, and quickly hid them behind his back before they could betray him.

She nodded. "And when I get back, there's something I'd like you to do for me."

"What's that?"

"Teach me to swim."

"You don't know how to swim?"

She glanced pointedly at the O2 canister. "With this thing attached to me? I've never had chance to try. But when I'm better, it's the first thing I want to learn. My dad tells me that swimming is like floating weightlessly, cushioned by water all around, almost like flying in a dream. I've wanted to swim ever since I was a little girl, and we'd drive to the coast and watch seals playing in the waves."

"Then of course I'll teach you to swim," he promised. "I'm sure you'll be great at it."

"Thank you." She threw her arms around him, pulling him into another hug. When she spoke again, her voice was a whisper. "You'll text me, won't you? And email me?"

"All the time."

"And you'll try not to get into too much trouble whilst I'm not here to bail you out of it?"

"Hey, this is me we're talking about."

"Exactly," she grinned. Then she released him from the hug, leaving his body feeling cold and empty. "I wanna go see your mom before I leave. I think I should tell her myself where I'm going. She's been so good to me. I want to thank her for everything she's done. For making me feel like a normal girl for once in my life."

"Yeah. I'm sure she'll be glad you came to say goodbye."

"Alright. Are you coming?"

"You go ahead," he said, with the best smile he could muster. "I'm just gonna lock up here and I'll meet you at the house."

"Okie dokie," she said, and left the office, wheeling her tank behind her.

As soon as she'd gone, Norman felt his legs give way, and he sank down into one of the chairs. _Emma was leaving._ He'd taken it for granted that she would always be there, as she always had been, ever since he'd moved to White Pine Bay. And not only was Emma leaving, but Dylan was looking for a place of his own, and Bradley was back with her boyfriend and wanted nothing to do with Norman…

He would have nobody. Nobody except his mother. The one person who had always been there for him, and always would be. The one, single constant in his life. His mother would never leave him. She would never go away. She loved him too much. She would be there forever, to take care of him.

Leaving the office, he locked it up and headed back up to the house, and tried not to think about how lonely he was going to be.

o - o - o - o - o

The house was in darkness, except for the small pool of light in the living room. Clementine was asleep in her bed, her paws quivering slightly as she chased something in her canine dream. Romero took a sip of his chamomile tea, and turned his attention back to the list of numbers lying on the coffee table. Moore and Regina had worked their way through them, but found no Rick, no Richard, and no motive for murder.

Though he was loathe to admit it, Romero knew he'd hit a dead end. But life wasn't like television. Real police work wasn't like CSI. You didn't get a team of super-geniuses to cobble together evidence using high-tech gadgets, and throw out one-liners whilst casually arresting the criminals no more than forty-eight hours after the crime had been committed. The wheels of justice turned more slowly, in real life. Sometimes it took weeks or months for crimes to be solved. Sometimes they never were.

And tomorrow, he was going to have to go to Beverley Watson's funeral, and tell Carmella Hawthorn that he'd made no progress in locating her sister's killer. That thought left a bitter taste in Romero's mouth. He didn't like loose ends, especially when they were capable of killing defenceless women.

On a whim, he stood up and went to the bookshelf, pulling out an old and battered copy of Tolkien's _The Lord of the Rings._ He turned to page 167, and picked out the photograph held between the pages. Before looking at it, he read the short verse which it had hidden.

_All that is gold does not glitter,_

_Not all those who wander are lost;_

_The old that is strong does not wither,_

_Deep roots are not reached by the frost._

_From the ashes a fire shall be woken,_

_A light from the shadows shall spring;_

_Renewed shall be blade that was broken,_

_The crownless again shall be king._

The words brought a smile to his lips. Her favourite poem, it had been, even though it wasn't really a poem. Keats and Frost and Wordsworth she could take or leave, but Tolkien's short poems and riddles never failed to make her smile.

Putting the book down, he carried the photograph to the couch and settled down to look at it again. It was the only picture he had left of them. All the others had been burned in their frames, along with their clothes, along with all of the toys. Their pictures, their things, had haunted him, driving him to grief beyond imagination. It was a feeling that had twisted inside him, eating away at his heart, tormenting his mind, and he'd heard the silent accusation whenever he glanced at their still faces.

_You should have protected us._

So he'd gathered their pictures, their clothes, the toys, and anything else that had been touched by them. He'd gathered it all and burnt it on a pyre, letting his grief be borne away by the smoke of that fire rising towards the heavens. The book, and the picture of his wife, his childhood sweetheart, holding their infant son in her arms, had been the only things he had kept. Her favourite book now hid and protected this one last piece of evidence that they had ever existed as something more than a beautiful, sad dream.

It had been five years after their deaths before he'd been able to bring himself to open up the book and look at the picture for the first time. Since that day, two or three times a year he would open the book, read the rhyme, and spend hours just gazing at their faces. Matilda's face was timeless, her youthful beauty preserved forever. Similarly, little Daniel would remain a child for eternity. He would never grow up, never learn to write, never fall and graze his knees in the playground, never bring home his first girlfriend, his first child, never see grandchildren, never have to suffer illness and old age. In the picture, the boy just shy of his second birthday was an immortal child.

What would they say, he wondered, if they could see him now? He looked up at his own face, reflected in the glass of the window. It was a face that seemed little changed by the past twenty years, but one that he suspected Matilda would not recognise. Time and grief had burnt away any softness, and the eyes which looked back at him seemed harsh and unforgiving. Would his son, who would now be a young man of twenty-two, flinch away from those eyes? Or would he look at them, and understand that they were the eyes of a man who'd had to do harsh, regrettable things to keep people safe?

"Take care of each other," he said, running his finger briefly over both faces before tucking the photo back into the book, which took its usual place on the shelf. There had been a time, long ago, when he couldn't imagine living without them. Now, he couldn't imagine how different his life would be if they had survived the time when War had visited White Pine Bay.


	8. Carry on

My Town

_8. Carry on_

"I heard you got into a bit of a scrap, Norman. That was quite the black eye you had last week."

Romero watched as the boy shifted on his chair, running his hands across his knees as if trying to make himself smaller, somehow. Most of the kids he'd interviewed had done pretty much the same thing. Most of their parents had told them, when they'd been much younger of course, that the police knew all your secrets, and that if you did anything bad, they'd come and take you away.

It wasn't the truth, but it ensured they had a healthy fear of law enforcement officers. As they got older, and a little wiser, that fear turned into something more akin to respect… as long as they stayed on the right side of the law.

"Shouldn't my mother be here for this?" Norman asked, and for a brief moment Romero saw him not as a young man on the cusp of adulthood, but as a little boy looking for the safety of his mother's presence.

He gestured at the empty classroom. "You're not being accused of any crime, Norman. We're just talking."

"Oh. Okay. Talking." Each word was punctuated by a nod of the boy's head.

"So what happened? With your eye, I mean."

"Oh, that." Norman tried for a quick, casual grin. "It's nothing. Just a misunderstanding. It's all sorted out now." Romero looked at him with his practised cop-stare. "Really."

"You know, if you wanted to press charges, you'd be well within your right."

"I don't want to do that," Norman said quickly, shaking his head from side to side. "I just want to forget about it."

Romero waited for a moment, in case anything else was forthcoming, but Norman simply sat there in silence.

"Alright," he said at last. "I understand how it is. Sometimes, young men just need to blow off steam. Believe it or not, I was young once."

"Oh, I do," Norman said with apparent sincerity.

"So. Miss Watson." The boy almost flinched at the mention of the name. "She was one of your favourite teachers, wasn't she?"

"Yes, Miss Watson was great. Just great."

Romero nodded, and pretended to consult the file he'd brought with him. "I believe she recommended you have some counselling sessions."

"That's right. She did."

"And how's that working out for you?"

"Good. Yeah. I mean, I've only been once, but I've been so busy with school, and the motel…" Norman trailed off under Romero's stare. "The counsellor said I can make an appointment any time I need to talk."

"One of the other teachers said they say you with Miss Watson a couple of times, after class. Doing some work?"

"Oh yeah," Norman said, breaking into a momentary smile. "Miss Watson was helping me to edit a shot story I'd written for class. She thought it might be good enough to get published." The smile disappeared. "I don't think that's going to happen now. I don't really want to work on it without Miss Watson's help. It makes me too sad."

Romero nodded again. "Now, when you were here late with Miss Watson, did you see anybody hanging around? A man, perhaps?"

The boy pursed his lips and shook his head.

"Did Miss Watson ever seem afraid to be here on her own? Ask you to walk her to her car? Anything like that?"

"No. She always seemed happy to be in school."

"Did she ever mention anybody to you, in passing? A man's name?"

"No, nothing like that," Norman said with a frown. "I mean, it's not like we talked about her personal life. She was always very professional, even after school hours."

A quiet sigh escaped Romero's lips. The answers Norman gave were on par with what the rest of the students and other teachers had told him. No, they hadn't seen a strange man loitering around. No, Miss Watson always left alone in her car. No, she never seemed afraid to be in the school after most people had already gone home.

"Okay Norman, you can go. But if you think of anything else, please let me know. And try to stay out of fights, alright?"

"Yeah, okay," Norman agreed, practically falling over himself to get to the door. But, once there, he stopped, and turned back with a strange expression on his face.

"What is it?" Romero prompted.

"Well… something I overheard. About Miss Watson. She asked me not to tell anyone, but if it can help with your investigation…"

"Tell me what you heard." He reached for his pen as the boy began to talk, Norman's brown eyes unfocused as he recalled some past event.

"I was walking past Miss Watson's classroom and the door had been left open a little. She was standing by the window, talking on her cell phone. She was pretty upset. Her face… I've never seen such fear and anger before. Almost like she was in shock. She was talking to a man. Shouting at him, really. She kept telling him that he couldn't say that to her, that he had to stop calling her, that she didn't want to talk to him ever again. She told him to leave her alone. After she hung up, I went into the room. She was shaking, almost hysterical. I wasn't sure what to do, but she asked me if I'd overheard the conversation, and I said no, not really. She told me to forget about everything I'd heard, and asked me not to tell anyone. Then she ran out, but I don't know where she went. Maybe the staff room."

Romero edged forward on his seat, felt the heat of his own stare burning into Norman's face. "Did you hear a name?"

"Yeah. Eric."

_Eric._ Not Rick, but Eric. Norman Bates, it seemed, was a better listener than Carmella Hawthorn.

"When did this happen, Norman?"

"Friday of the Winter Dance, after third period."

"That's very useful. Thank you, Norman."

"No problem Sheriff." The boy gave him a small smile. "I just want to help catch whoever did this. People hurting innocent women… it's not right."

Romero nodded towards the door, and the boy left. As the door closed, he could feel the possibilities opening up before him. He knew three Erics who lived in the town, and two of them were married. He'd arrange for his officers to pick them up so that he could have an informal chat with them about their whereabouts on the Friday night when Miss Watson had been killed. One of them would know something. One of them _had_ to know something, because it was the only solid lead Romero had within his grasp.

_Brrrrrring brrrrrring. Brrrrrring Brrrrrring._

He pulled the cell from his pocket, and noticed the ID. _Dep. Ron. Moore._

"Romero," he answered.

"Sir, it's me," Moore replied. "Are you busy?"

"Just finished at the high school. Why, what's up?"

"We have a situation."

o - o - o - o - o

Dylan inhaled, breathing deeply of the fresh forest air. The smell of pine sap assaulted his nose as last year's needle-fall was crushed beneath his heavy boots. In the distance he heard a woodpecker drilling into a tree, the hollow sound reverberating around the quiet forest.

"What the hell are we doing out here?"

He turned to glance back at Remo. As usual, the man looked like he'd gone a week without a shave and less than twenty four hours without a drink. At least his red plaid shirt was relatively clean today. Sometimes he didn't bother changing.

"I told you. Hunting pheasant."

"No shit, dumbass. But why are we hunting pheasant?"

"Because Norma's got it into her head to make us a family Christmas meal, and I thought fresh pheasant would taste nicer than store-bought chicken."

"Christmas is still eight days away. It ain't gonna be that fresh."

"I'll freeze it. It'll still be nicer than chicken."

Remo waved his rifle dismissively, and took a couple of steps to catch up. Dylan fought to rein in his irritation. The way Remo was crashing through the undergrowth, he wouldn't be surprised if all the pheasants were already gone. Still, they _did_ need flushing out, and it wasn't as if Dylan had a dog…

"You know," Remo said, thoughtfully observant for once, "most kids don't call their moms by their first names."

"Well most moms aren't Norma Bates."

"You should cut her some slack. She's a fine looking woman and she makes a mean cup of coffee."

"Dude, that's my mother you're talking about."

"And I got eyes, don't I?" Remo hurried to catch up. "So what's the deal with her? She's divorced from your dad or something?"

"Yeah." Dylan lashed out at a fern that got in his way. "They got married when they were kids, pretty much. They were young and stupid and neither knew what they wanted. She had an affair with Sam, that's Norman's dad, and my folks split."

"And where is Sam now?"

"Dead." He tried hard to keep the frown from his face. For months he'd been certain that Norma had killed Sam, for the insurance money. Just a few weeks ago, she'd told him the truth; that Norman had lashed out at his father whilst in some sort of trance, defending his mother from the man who was starting to get violent. "It was an accident."

"You think I'm her type?"

"No," he snorted, half amused and half disgusted by the thought of Remo and his mother together. Oh God, how he wished he had caustic soda for the brain, to scour away that mental image.

"Why not?"

"For a start, she doesn't like drunks. Also, she liked men who are into personal hygiene. Third, you work for me."

"Ohhh. So you think I'm not good enough for your mom?"

"What? No, just the opposite." He stopped to talk face to face with his employee. Man to man with the guy who'd been working this job longer than Dylan had been alive. "Trust me, Remo, you do _not_ want to get involved with Norma. She's honest to God insane. She's the owner, mayor and sole resident of Crazytown, population: Norma."

"If you ask me, being sane's overrated."

Dylan sighed. "Alright, fine. But don't say I didn't warn you." There wasn't a chance in hell Norma would ever be interested in Remo. Well, probably not. At least, it was very unlikely.

A sound down to the left caught his attention, and he raised his hand as he stopped walking, indicating for Remo to follow suit. Straining his senses, he cocked his head, and listened. A few seconds later the raucous cry of angry crows reached his ears, and he saw several of the birds fly up into the sky.

"Huh."

"What are your keen forestry senses telling you, Obi Wan Dylan?" Remo asked.

"I think there's something down there," he said, gesturing down the hillside with his rifle.

"Yeah, the road, dumbass. We're like two hundred metres from a lay-by."

"No, something else. C'mon, let's go take a look."

"Why?"

"Because crows are scavengers. Carrion eaters. They've probably found something that's died."

"So? Stuff dies in the forest all the time. Great circle of life and all that."

"I just wanna take a look."

"Sure. Nothing morbid about that."

Ignoring the older man, Dylan left the high ground and began a slow scramble down the bare hillside. Years' worth of pine needles made the footing treacherous, and from behind he heard Remo following whilst cursing and muttering under his breath. At last, though, the descent ended, and Dylan set out towards the source of the avian commotion.

He found the birds not far from the lay-by, just inside where the forest ended and the road began. They swarmed in the trees, two dozen or more, and the source of their consternation became apparent. Two coyotes were half-hidden by ferns, tearing at something, denying the crows their much-desired meal. Lifting his gun, Dylan fired into the air. The crows took to the sky crying raucous calls of alarm, and both coyotes bolted for the deeper forest.

With Remo behind him, he moved forwards, and when he reached the ferns which hid the coyotes' meal, he used the butt of his weapon to move them aside. When he saw what was lying there, he almost gagged on the bile which rose in his throat.

Remo took out a cigarette, sparked it up, and sucked in a long drag before blowing out blue smoke. "Well there's something you don't see every day."

"Shit," Dylan agreed.

o - o - o - o - o

_You think you know someone._

You went your whole life thinking you knew who they were, what they stood for, what their morals and ethics entailed, how much they could or could not be bought for. Romero had known Keith Summers since they were both boys, though Keith had been five years his senior. They'd hung out together, because back then White Pine Bay had been a smaller place, with fewer kids, and when you were an only child, like Romero was, you had to find a gang to hang out with so that the other gangs would leave you alone.

Keith hadn't been the leader of the gang. He'd just been one of the kids. As had Maggie Summers, Keith's younger sister. Two years older than Romero, she'd been one of the smallest kids in the group, a frail thing in a dirty dress with oft-scuffed knees. Romero had largely ignored her, as he'd ignored the other three girls in the group, because that's what you did when you were a boy; you ignored girls.

So the boys had hung out together, some ten or eleven of them staking out a small piece of territory along the coast, about a mile down from the docks, and they'd spent their time climbing around the tide pools, picking limpets, tormenting starfish, and generally not doing much of anything. When they hadn't been down at the coast, they spent their time in the fields behind the town, playing at cops and robbers, or cowboys and indians.

And the girls had tagged along, because that's what girls did. They followed boys around, and were ignored, except for when one side needed an extra cop or an extra indian. They were ignored, but in a very _watched_ way, because a boy who didn't keep an eye out for his sister was likely to get a clout around the ear from his mother when he got home.

Over the years, Romero had continued to ignore Maggie Summers. He saw her around from time to time, but somehow he rarely found the time to talk to her. She worked as an accountant, keeping books for the family's motel business, and for a dozen other families in town. People respected her work. She never made mistakes. She was quiet, always living in Keith's shadow, especially after their parents passed away.

The last time he'd seen Maggie Summers, he realised how unkind time had been to her. He could still remember her as a child, two years older than him but half his size, with wide blue eyes which always had a look of surprise about them. But that child was gone. She had been replaced by a woman whose face had been aged almost beyond belief, a woman who'd glanced up at him in genuine fear.

He'd thought he'd known her.

Then he'd discovered the books she kept for Shelby and Keith's 'business.' He discovered she knew all about the girls being shipped in to be sold on as as sex slaves. She knew all about it, and all she did was write down numbers. She did sums. Calculations. She added decimal places and worked out percentages, and made sure the bottom line came out right. At that moment, as he read her handiwork, the little girl she had been had died forever. He realised that the face she wore was just a mask.

He had no idea why she'd done it. Perhaps Keith had beaten her. Perhaps they'd cut her in for a share of the profit. Maybe they'd threatened to sell _her_, along with the girls. He just didn't know. He'd never thought to ask her why she'd done it, and now he'd never get the chance.

"How'd you find her?" he asked as he stared sightlessly down at the body. It wasn't a pretty sight. The corpse was half-eaten, preyed upon by the local wildlife. But even despite that, he could tell that she had suffered a terrible death. There was blood. A lot of it. And it had been fresh, at one time.

"We were driving along the road and needed to pull into the lay-by," Dylan said, in a voice that spoke to Romero of practised lies.

"Why'd you stop?"

"I needed a piss," Remo spoke up.

Romero glanced at the older man, then at Dylan. Their faces were carefully blank. Their truck was parked not far away. He didn't know why they were lying, and he didn't care. He was pretty sure they weren't involved in Maggie's death. He hadn't known Dylan long enough to get a good sense of his character, but Remo was one of Gil's seasoned veterans. It was entirely possible that Remo had killed someone, at some point. But Gil's men knew better than to rock the boat. They knew the price of standing out in the crowd. Remo wasn't dumb enough to commit murder anywhere near White Pine Bay.

"And then?" he prompted.

"I saw a load of crows in the trees, and a couple of coyotes eating something under the brush," Dylan said. "I fired shots to scare them off—"

"How many?"

The kid looked confused. "Does it matter?"

"Police forensics teams are going to be combing this entire area," Romero told him patiently. "When and if we find bullets, you better hope that we find the same number as the shots you fired."

"He shot twice," Remo said.

"Yeah," Dylan confirmed. "Twice. Sheriff, you don't think we're involved in this, do you? We just found the body."

"Leave your numbers with Deputy Moore," he told them, ignoring the question. "I'll let you know if I have any further questions."

Dylan looked like he wanted to object, but Remo had the good sense to lead him away by the arm, to the muted mutterings of _'Come on, dumbass.'_ Trusting Moore to get their details, he dismissed both men from his mind, and crouched down beside Fitzpatrick.

"Please tell me this isn't my fault, Tom," he said. "Tell me that this hasn't happened because I didn't move fast enough on the Watson killing, and now he's had chance to strike again."

Fitzpatrick glanced up from his observation of the body.

"This isn't your fault, Alex. You didn't force that bastard to kill Beverley Watson. And you didn't force whoever was here to do this to Maggie Summers."

Hope fluttered within his chest. "The killings aren't linked?"

"Even before I've done an autopsy, I can tell you that Maggie suffered a violently painful death. What flesh is left shows extensive signs of bruising. And look at this." He lifted up the left hand, to show one of the fingers missing.

"Coyotes have been at the body," Romero suggested.

Fitzpatrick's eyebrows rose up towards his hairline. "With a hack-saw? No. This finger wasn't chewed off by a canid. It was sawed off, probably before she died. It's beginning to look very much like she was tortured. Poor woman."

Romero let out a long, slow breath. Who on Earth would want to torture Maggie Summers? Other than Jake Abernathy, of course. But Abernathy was dead. Romero was sure of it. The dead man's body hadn't surfaced from the dock waters yet, but it would eventually. Nothing stayed buried for long, in White Pine Bay.

"I can't say for sure, not yet, but I don't think the same man who killed Beverley Watson also killed Maggie Summers. The level of violence I'm seeing here… it's nothing like the first murder."

"Great. So instead of one killer on my hands, I now have two."

"When you put it like that, it hardly sounds like good news at all," Fitzpatrick said wryly. He looked around at the scene. "It's going to be dark soon. The forensics team from Scotswood should be here within half an hour. Tomorrow, I'll start the autopsy on Ms. Summers, and see if I can establish the cause of death."

"You'll keep me informed?"

"Of course. You're not staying until forensics arrives?"

"Moore knows what he's doing," Romero said. "I have to go open a new file for Maggie. And make some arrangements for tomorrow."

"Why, what's happening tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow, I'm interviewing Erics."


End file.
